Compartment

The old phone booth,

glass gone, skeleton rusted

on the corner of a street

where no one waits for calls.

It stood there, a box,

small and private,

a sudden thought of secrets

pressed into wood,

into stale air.

I thought of the church ones,

dark polished screen,

the smell of old varnish,

a voice on the other side

like a moth against a pane,

unseen, just sound.

What weight would that box hold?

What dust of true things

settling in its empty space,

waiting for an ear,

or just a quiet

release.