used to be an art form.
the dime
going in, the spin of the heavy
dial
in black,
the numbers and letters
clearly visible
as you stood
under the lights
in the glass encased booth.
the trucks roaring by in the rain.
and you, with your heart
on your sleeve
calling your sweetheart
once again.
the sound
of her voice, her
breathing, warming you
across the miles
of wire.
a stack of coins
ready to slide in,
another dime for another
precious minute
or two.
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