BALLAD Poem: My Home’s in Alabama, by Jamie McDaniel

I want to write a ballad for the voice
behind every spam call. But what’s
musical about a conversation with someone
who wants to speak about my car’s extended
warranty or about how their underwriting
department is missing documents for a loan
never applied for? What’s love got to do
with the salesperson, sitting in their cubicle,
trying to meet a weekly quota—a goal
betrayed by the AT&T app flashing “Spam Risk”
before they speak? They offer their finest pitch,
unrequited by voicemail. I’m the ghost
they seek to bust, the specter of their failure
at a job they have because the Anniston strip mall
between my parents’ print shop and the closed
Ruby Tuesday is walkable
from their trailer park rental
and they don’t have
transportation
healthcare
family.

Because in the shadow of Mount Cheaha
Governor MeeMaw don’t care.
A Noccalula story revised
not with a leap, but a slow fade.
A story written in hangups.

Author: poetryfest

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