The Last Phone Booth
The last phone booth on the planet smells
of fish sticks and lavender bug spray.
Some days I discover it inside my closet
behind the silk pants I inherited from my mother.
Other days it’s at the back of the work fridge.
Once the phone booth appeared in our bed,
perfectly lodged in the space between my husband
and me. We both entered the dark interior and when
we left, I finally understood why my husband
was afraid of grackles, and he finally understood
why I had never wanted kids. There are rumors
of the phone booth driving a red convertible
along beachside highways or hovering in the line
for newly released iStilettos. Some say you can
get the phone booth to appear if you put a dollar
in the Skee-Ball machine at Bezz’s, and that if you
glimpse your reflection in the glass, you have spent
too long meditating. I’ve heard of a rabbi who tried
to use the phone booth to host bar mitzvahs.
If you look closely at the window in the ad
for erectile disfunction pills, you can spot the edge
of the phone booth strolling towards a distant smiley face.
One afternoon in a moment of self-hatred and rage,
I shoved a whole year of my life into the phone booth.
When, decades later, I found that year, I felt
ashamed of how little about it had changed.
