Monthly Visitor Poem by Bryan Corbett

I've had the same cellphone number
for 20 years
it's two digits off from
the Department of Immigration
and Naturalization Services

I'm not kidding.

on the last three days
of the last week
of every month
my phone blows up
with people on the other end of the line
speaking AT me
in languages I don't understand at all

I'm not kidding.

at first,
they sound all humble, and sweet
then they sound polite, but questioning
then they sound confused, and annoyed
then they sound angry
then they start swearing AT me
in languages I don't understand at all

then they start SCREAMING
in broken English with a thick accent:
'you focker of the mother'

then I hang up
and take the next call
of a humble and sweet foreigner
looking for my help
to get them into the country

come on, what did you think
this poem was going to be about
when you read the title?