The shop smells like mildew and cedar and dust

The shop smells like mildew and cedar and dust,

and the air in the corner is heavy with rust.

I picked up the handset, a blunt, plastic weight,

like a secret I found just a little too late.

The cord is a tangle of salt-crusted black,

and it fights as I pull it and don't look back.

I spun the cold wheel to a zero, then four,

while the rain started drumming against the front door.

The mechanism groans like a heart skipping beats,

winding down slowly to quiet the streets.

It’s waiting for voices that don't live here now,

and I’m holding the silence, not knowing quite how.