No Receiver

That old phone booth, down by the tracks,

the glass all scuffed, like someone

tried to scratch out every last word

they ever didn't say.

A dirty box, for dirty thoughts, or none.

The receiver, gone. Or maybe just

dangling, cut wire, a dead mouth.

But still, I feel it, sometimes,

the urge to step inside,

to pull the door shut, heavy with what-ifs.

To press my face against the pane,

fog it up with breath,

and draw a single, crooked finger-line

down through the condensation.

As if to say, this is where I stood.

As if someone might see through the grit,

hear through the silence.

Just an old box, but it felt

like a place to finally unload,

with no one on the other end to pick it up.