The Desk Turtle

He slumps in the desk chair, a shell-less turtle, limp sans exoskeleton,
deflated as the guilt of a low response rate weighs on his bowed and feeble shoulders.
Oh the names they call him;

¡Researcher!
¡Surveyor of Markets!
¡Sorry mum’s not home now!
¡Why are you calling me? I have a silent number!

The bitter pill of continued rejection combined with poor seating posture has led to a pounding ache behind the left eye,
a twisting, driving and piercing pain wonderfully exacerbated by the ever-glowing tubes of brightness from above.
His only entertainment is the variety of answering machine prompts that pepper the evening, a 20-25 second glimpse of ungainly, stilted insight into another’s life.