With eyes wide shut, I saw
that unchanged box: the crown above
a concrete base, cast-iron sides
and dome of currant red.
Four fingers crooked to prise ajar
its glazed, teak-heavy door.
Inside, the glass is uglified.
NF stickers clash with brazen ‘massage’ ads -
hate meets hanky-panky.
I unhook the hard black handset,
unwind its cable, tightly coiled.
Paused at the dialling tone
my head fills with excuses,
speaks to those ghosts of lost entanglement.
The nagging hum of piss,
patting pockets down for 10p pieces
before I get cut off.
Outside a geezer, glaring, checks his watch.
Headstrong nights had ambition then.
Listening for things to come
my shape became an ear.
But round the bend and out of sight,
in dreams I hear just nameless cars
pass by as streams of light.
viii. 2022
From a postcard prompt, as pictured.
ReplyDeleteBefore the age of mobile telephony, and especially in the years after leaving home, the classic K6 phonebox was a vital (if not always reliable) means of communication.
Many thanks to Casey Jarrin for some crucial nudges in arriving at this final edit.