Ode to the red voice mail light

Your redness I love,
Like a fresh-plucked tomato–
Basil garlic salad with greek olives,
I press you down but no–
You come back on.

Enter the passcode,
Followed by the pound–
Signs that I'm gone too long,
Out of the office, not around–
I'm at lunch.

My overhead light's off,
But you stay lit up–
'Side my dialpad buttons. Scoff–
At my inability to stop–
Signs that I'm not here.

Your body never rings,
But you are on because. You–
Turn on from a forward. Ding,
You won't go away. Now two–
Tones buzz when I pick up the handset.

One. Two, Three/Four. Five. Pound,
The damn key doesn't work–
Force the thing, up-side-down,
Monkeys could do this. Jerk–
Off my desk. Damn light.

Frustration dials for help,
You stay lit despite IT support–
Ho's leav'n msg's like the operator,
Kill me now before I report–
Summary in an e-mail.

"Check your messages they're full,"
Unlike your head you bitch–
Complain again to no avail,
The phone's broken. I've got an itch–
This is not my password.