A woman stands illuminated by a single light, <br /> <br />shivers in a capsule as the cold night bites her ankles, <br /> <br />speaks to a loved one from miles beyond. <br /> <br />Phone book ripped, used for memo; <br /> <br />Scratched graffiti monuments to ego; <br /> <br />and the different coloured handset twelfth one in a year. <br /> <br />The red light of warning, her hurried good-byes and assurances <br /> <br />of future correspondence tell me my wait is over. <br /> <br />My ankles freeze; huddled and highlighted in a street of darkness, <br /> <br />breath as thick as smoke from a cigarette. <br /> <br />I tell the familiar voice the red light is flashing. <br /> <br />My goodbye is cut short.<br /><br />Anthony Dawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/phone-booth/
