In the beginning, phone-tree,
long branch, press one for savior.
Time on hold to ponder,
do we cease to exist or exist
to cease. Me, out of it, off
a bit, high on tea, so much so
need to call for help, not visit
the spiritualist, where folks queue,
air kiss, woo-woo session
with lost wives, lovers, of whom
I have not any left. Guru hisses,
low-pitched, complete the reversal,
fetch redemption, undo each wrong.
Be less bad than old me, better
than the new. Silence does not mean
no answer. He hangs up on me too.