Phone Booth Poem by Anthony Dawson

A woman stands illuminated by a single light,

shivers in a capsule as the cold night bites her ankles,

speaks to a loved one from miles beyond.

Phone book ripped, used for memo;

Scratched graffiti monuments to ego;

and the different coloured handset twelfth one in a year.

The red light of warning, her hurried good-byes and assurances

of future correspondence tell me my wait is over.

My ankles freeze; huddled and highlighted in a street of darkness,

breath as thick as smoke from a cigarette.

I tell the familiar voice the red light is flashing.

My goodbye is cut short.