POEM: Curt-sy

He was packing
Enough courtesy
In a singular hi
More sow
Than a jillion marketers
Shooting their wad of scripts

Most people seem to be in a hurry most of the time.  This poem is about courtesy and curtness.  This short poem was inspired by a telephone call from the asking me to donate platelets since I was eligible three days after my recent whole blood donation.  The telemarketer, blood donor recruitment associate, or whatever he might have been called, called nicely enough.  After thanking me for my 48 blood donations, I indicated to him that I intended to stick with my long-successful strategy of donating a few times a year.  His script was replete with ingratiations alternating with asks.  I’ve asked a number of times before for the Red Cross to stop calling me 58 days after each donation.  They managed to call me after 38 days.  This being the third poem I wrote today, I had a couple of minutes to spare, so I listened to the short end of his shtick.  What caught my attention was the well-designed courtesy sounding a byte like a 33-record played at 45 (a reference for you old folks).  I suspect his worth is valued more by the number of calls rather than their quality.  As a patient in his hospitality, I wish him productive heeling.  Needle-less to say, I felt a bit like I was in a lineup for someone trying to break a whirled record for the most thank yous in a day.  Such experiences capture my issue with our fixation on quantity over quality — probably because it’s easier to be measured.  Personally, I practice hearty greetings, even to replete strangers.


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