Note: I know I read a poem ages ago about levitating phone booths, and I cannot for the life of me find it anywhere online - the book's in my hometown. So, apologies to the poet whose name I can't remember - this is a fond tribute, not a rip-off because I have very fond memories of that particular poem.
The
secret lives of phone booths are complicated.
They
stand, solitary street confessionals
Inviting
telephone confidences.
Unwilling
eavesdroppers of conversation
Each
graffiti mark has its tale:
Marz luvs Joolz. Call Me xx-xxx
U sounded like coordin8s 2 avoid
were an invitation 2 bed
Down with taxes! right
next to Have more sex, it’s free.
Phone
booths hold the weight of the world
Within
their cramped, four-walled confines.
Close,
heavy air laden with secrets
Claustrophobic with anxiety and sweat
The
rank odour of dead dreams and stale food
An
insistent, insidious permeation.
Such
gravity is hard to carry.
Last
night I heard a phone booth whispering to another
Through
the telephone line:
A
soft, dull patter like the rustle of directory pages.
They
stopped politely when I made my call
Coins
dropping through the slot like cheap marbles.
When
I finished, I heard them resume
Before
I put the receiver down.
When
I exited, I swear I saw my phone booth float
Two
inches off the ground, then lift off quietly
Into
the air where another phone booth waited
A
silhouette against the crescent moon.
But
in the morning, it was back in its place
Solid,
unmoving, a perfectly ordinary phone booth
On
a perfectly ordinary day.
No comments:
Post a Comment