Hello Telstra, this is me.
I wish to make a declaration —
The termination of our contract shall be
not so much a breakage as an amputation.
It’s not unreasonable, I think,
to want more internet access than I’ve got.
It’s not even unfair to say you stink.
(Wait — are you a person or just a bot?)
Do you know your wireless connection [piece of shite]
only works in the mornings up until 8
and after 10pm or sometimes midnight?
Nothing in between. I wait and wait.
I fiddle, experiment, cry and curse.
And I know when I phone for a technical person
the situation will rapidly get worse,
though one might think it couldn’t possibly worsen.
I’ve been there before. They are full of advice
and it works for five minutes, then back to square one.
I’m sorry, it’s too much. No more being nice.
You’ve had it, it’s over, you’re under the gun.
You have broken my trust and disrupted my life.
I am discombobulated, devastated, mad.
I so need my sleep! You are in for real strife.
It’s Ombudsman time; I know I’ve been had.
She unplugged her laptop and closed the lid,
then picked up the modem and hurled it hard
through the open doorway. I promise she did.
It smashed on the fence down the end of the yard.
30 Poems in 30 Days: 15, A broken object + (simultaneously) 17, 3 words of 4 or more syllables