She orders
seven hundred dollars worth of merchandise
for Christmas for her pets.

Yells at me when I can’t hear her
spell “Misty” and “Sparky”
for the matching personalized doggy PJs

because my headset is wonky
and drowning in static,
and the boss won’t give me another one.

I press my hands to the headphones
and take it, apologizing, advising her
about sizes on merchandise I’ve never seen

as if I care about this, because for some reason
I do, I want her to be happy, want her
to buy more for the commission I’ll make if she does

so I make it up and keep a gentle tone
even though I’m so ready to be done with her
and her cherished pets, Misty and Sparky

with their obvious names, a couple of Black Labs,
probably sleek and shiny and well fed
without being overfat, who will soon be getting an extra run in everyday

on their new bridle leather harnesses
then sleeping in their new cedar framed twill cushioned beds.
If you want to understand why I listen

to punk, barking and snarling loudly all the way to work
and all the way home,
this should help.