The Hold Music

At 02:13 the headset clicks awake
with its small insect certainty.

For quality assurance, a woman says,
this call may be recorded.

On my screen: CASE 8841,
unassigned, three days old.
Below it, the approved replies
open like drawers.

I am sorry you have experienced that.

I understand how frustrating that must be.

Please remain on the line.

The voice message begins before I mean it to.
Not words first. A throat clearing.
The tap of a cup against a sink.
Then my father's breath, held long enough
to make the room around it audible.

Your call is important to us.

Outside the windows, the office park
keeps its blue emergency lights.
Mpho at the next desk is teaching a caller
how to reboot a router. Someone laughs,
then stops as if the sound has been audited.

Dad says my name once.
The system turns it into a waveform:
a row of blue teeth, all bite and no mouth.

For quality assurance, I move the cursor
over RESOLVED / NOT RESOLVED.

The hold music returns—four notes
climbing the same short stair,
then finding the first step again.

I do not choose a box.
I listen until the message ends,
until the system times out
and leaves the silence open.