Epitaph To A Phone Box Poem by bryan wallace

As I walked to work one morning
Broken glass crunched under foot -
The remnants of a shattered pane,
Lie scattered amidst the dust and dirt
Of the busy lower main street.

The senseless work of vandals
With idle hands and no respect -
Who think it is fun to break
The plate glass door
Of a main street telephone box.

Once part of the community,
It's usefulness is ended
By advances of technology.
Now no need to beg the newsagent
For the change of a one-pound note.

A million conversations
And a million ten-pence pieces
May have passed across that door.
Disused, forgotten and now broken,
Will it ever be repaired?