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