the phone booth

the phone booth,
gone now.
gone the way
of nickel candy,
dime pop,
gum for a penny.
the red coke machine
round shouldered
and hunched
cold and sweating
in the motel lot.
the phone booth,
with its
scratched black
box, the numbers
in ink,
skull and cross bones,
faces and names.
body parts,
erect or soft.
a thick book of thin
pages of anyone,
all in the tri-state
area.
this four walled
glass
tower of talk,
of battered
receivers, empty
dial tones,
of connecting to
the ones you loved,
the one you lost.