Man In Phone Booth On A Rainy Day Poem by Sonny Rainshine

A cold November drizzle
had dampened the pages
of the phone directory
as it dangled from a wire,
flaccid, like a yellow and
white tongue, a thousand numbers
whispering: Call me.

The phone booth was enclosed
in glass, unusual these days
when people carry phone booths
on their backs and in their cars.
An accordian door shut
out the damp wind.

From outside the booth
the condensation on the glass walls
of the enclosure made the man
inside look pixelated
and fluid. Tears on the glass
obscured tears in his eyes.

Bad news can come through the mail,
e- or snail. It can be overhead on the bus,
packaged up and shipped overnight.
It can be faxed, it can be fillibustered,
it can be forwarded.

But love affairs always seem to terminate
at the end of a wire.