Press One For Nowhere
She keeps the phone on the counter next to old prescription stacks and tea
Glasses down on her nose while she squints at the tiny screen she can barely see
Letter came in yesterday saying something wasn’t paid on time
Now she’s holding on for “service” through a maze that borders on crime.
Robotic voice says “listen closely
our menu has changed again
” She grabs a pen from a chipped mug
tries to write it down but can’t keep up with ten
“Press one for billing, press two for claims
press three if you’re already dead
” She hits the buttons slow and careful while the fear crawls up her head.
She’s an old woman lost in a phone tree built by someone who’ll never see her face
Listening to canned piano while they shuffle her case
If she screams down the line
it just loops that song instead
Whole world wired together
but she can’t get a human to hear what’s in her head.
The chatbot pops a window on a site that barely loads
Asks her to pick from problems that don’t match the weight of these codes
“Type your question here” like it means a damn thing at all
She writes “I think you canceled me” and gets some useless corporate drawl.
She’s got a son in another state who texts once every few weeks
Sends photos of his dinner and his kids and their mountain peaks
She doesn’t want to bother him with words like “they might cut my care
” So she sits in that crooked kitchen chair and argues with nowhere.
She’s an old woman lost in a phone tree built by someone who’ll never see her face
Listening to looping messages about “valuing her place
” If she cries into the receiver it just feeds another tone
A thousand numbers on the website but not one that reaches home.
On the wall is a landline from the days when ringing meant a friend
Back when a voice picked up by the third call and not at the bitter end
Now every path is passwords and a timer counting out her doubt
She whispers “operator” like a prayer the system filters out.
Forty minutes on hold before a click and sudden cut
She stares at the silent handset like it just slammed a door shut
Redials with shaking fingers while the daylight slips away
Each new queue and reference number eats another piece of day.
Down the hall I hear her talking through the plaster late at night
Soft “hello” and “please, I’m seventy-eight
I’m just trying to make this right
” Tomorrow I’ll knock with groceries and ask if she’s doing okay
But I can’t fight a maze of menus that treats her as delay.
She’s an old woman lost in a phone tree built by someone who’ll never know her worth
Listening to fake compassion while they fine-tune the system
If kindness had a hotline it would pick up on the first ring
Not send her round in circles till she can’t feel anything. She sets the phone face down and watches dust float through the air
Hums along off-key just to prove she’s not yet gone
And prays next time she calls for help a human might pick up the line Instead of moving her along.