There’s a man in the phone booth
Who isn’t on the phone
He’s not speaking
He hasn’t finished
Saying anything
To anyone
He’s far enough
Away from me
To not make me
Afraid
But the quiet move quick
And he seems poised to move
If he wants to
Part of me wants to
Walk up to the booth
And ask him
If there’s someone
I should call
His hands are closed
And I wonder
If there are quarters
Against him palms
Is he thinking
Of what he wants to say
And who he wants
To say it to?
The man in the phone booth
Who isn’t on the phone
Is standing stock still
But his mouth is open
Just a bit
His lips are more broken
Than open
I suppose
If I think about it
His feet are on the ground
But he seems to be
Lifted by something
The booth is small
As phone booths are
But he seems to take up
Not much room in it at all
He looks like
He could sit
If he wanted to
He looks like
He could vanish
If he wanted to
I feel breath on my neck
But there’s no one there
The man in the booth
Who isn’t on the phone
Is still within
My line of sight
But can be there
And behind me
At once?
What can’t he be?
Why can’t anybody be
Or do
Anything
They want
Strange how you meet
Or see
See someone
And know instantly
That they’ve figured out
How to step past limitation
And you’re a step behind
And are you afraid
Because you should be
Afraid
Or because
You know
There’s no catching up
And this person
This person
Who knows
How to be in a telephone booth
But not on the phone
Might decide
To be not very nice
With their unconditional
Abilities
There’s a man and he’s staring
Not at you
But past you
So what is he seeing?
Should you turn around?
Should you?
What could be so fascinating
That a man in a booth
Who’s not on the phone
Will not stop staring
Will not stop staring
Will not stop staring
You stare at the man
Who’s in the booth
Who’s not on the phone
And you don’t turn around
Even as the man
Picks up the phone
And dials a number
And asks someone
To please
Pick
Up
No comments:
Post a Comment