Having studied the Poet McGonagall, I have learned that all one needs to write terrible but amusing poetry is a banal subject, no ear for poetry, and to try really hard. This seemed appropriate for today, given many people's current struggles with Ventra. * *
Now I know why they call it hold,
Because I am being held here
Against my weakening will.
This musical phrase is the only music that has ever existed.
Garbled and echoing,
Grooves worn deep by endless repetition,
And digital compression.
Suddenly, it dies, but there is no flicker of hope
Because I know what happens next.
Her muffled-static android voice returns,
Asks me to wait.
Assures me my call is important.
Promises someone will be with me shortly.
Is she my mother?
I feel like I know her,
We have spent so much time here together.
For instance, I now know she is a liar.
I now know the next available customer service associate
Does not exist.
I now know there are no humans at all in here,
Where I am held.
What was my life like before…?
Then she is gone, and the music returns.
I try to pick out the sounds of different instruments,
But it’s possible there never were any,
Just electric impulses shaped into sad approximations.
All that exists is this music, her voice, this music, her voice, this music.
Occasionally she asks me to press a button to indicate I am still alive.
These are the best times,
A change in the routine,
But I do not know if I should press it,
Or if I even can.
Am I still alive?
The music will start again soon.