the phone booth

you miss
the phone booth.
the glass enclosed
enclave
with the heavy
folding doors.
the thick
book of numbers
with pages
torn out.
it protected
you from the rain
and wind. snow.
the black phone nearly
unbreakable
with its
metal cord.
the scars of it
being banged,
grooved into
the top.
graffiti
scribbled on every
flat piece
of grey metal.
the doodles of
names and numbers,
crude drawings of
stick figures
making love.
each booth a
container of
lost stories,
of hands that slipped
dimes, or quarters
into the bell
ringing slot,
talking to an
operator who would,
after feeding more
coins,
connect your call.