Search
  • by Ryan Oliveira

to the dinosaur who is crawling on her hands and knees


Inspired by a day job experience.

The caller on my screen creaks bloody murder, curdling niceness only white people employ. I hear the needles in her incantations: “I want to speak to Amelie, I don’t want to speak to you.”

She cries, crawling on her hands and knees which calls the question: How does she use a phone? Groaning, she answers: “I want to speak to Amelie, I don’t want to speak to you.”

Detail-oriented historian, I fail to grasp her documents of unrelenting pain. Despite my patience, the raptor rakes: “I want to speak to Amelie, I don’t want to speak to you.”

My fingers are too slow; my voice too chipper; when I sneak a shiv, a clip in my consonants, she hisses: “I want to speak to Amelie, I don’t want to speak to you.”

Injections this instant, nurse at her beck, I am la-dee-dah-versing veins in her neck at my every insistence of leaving a message: “I want to speak to Amelie, I don’t want to speak to you.”

Sue me. Fire me. Chew me into cinder. Ruin me in your rheumatoid knobs, cawing about the good old days with doctors at your beck and crawl, scrawling Idiot with inconstant digits, barking Kenelog and Norco no doctor dares prescribe you anymore, or describe your slow descent into a death fitting the dinosaurs: Crawling on the tar pit of your tile floor.

But you want to speak to Amelie. So I humbly squeak you through.


0 views

Ryan Oliveira

Ideas.  I'm full of them.

This site was designed with the
.com
website builder. Create your website today.
Start Now