Telephone Box

It’s stranded on the edge of town,
open all hours for the disconnected.

I step inside to confess to my failings.
The afternoon sun hallelujahs hope

felt-penned onto glass:
Gaz & Jen 4ever   United   Rise up!

On the concrete floor, a cigarette end
spices dog-damp air, rasps its last breath.

A kilim of lichen and daisies
uncurls through the ventilation gap.

Then I notice the sign: Out of Service.
The handset is a brick in my fist.

I’m about to hang up when I catch
scratches of a voice, a lost soliloquy.

It’s only static, but it sounds like someone
praying for forgiveness. I stay awhile,

count the cars slipping by, one by one,
like beads through my fingers.

First published in Prole