Red Phone Box Eulogy

My eight legs and the rather emaciated web

I call home is all that remains now

In my phonebooth of choice.

Long ago my fate was extracted from

Carnaby Street and became nothing more

Than an addition to the scrap heap

Of hundreds of other booths,

All retired,

All tossed,

All showing the accumulated shroud

Of dust, rust and grime awaiting their turn

In the metal crusher.

So many times the paneled door

Has been slammed shut.

So many coins dropped into

The now extracted phone machine,

So many signatures, ugly words,

Love hearts and desperate shouts

Of graffiti scribed on the plexiglass,

Now broken or missing.

The lone metal shelf

Still echoes the dropping of coins

As ghostly fingers sort and pick,

Becoming magic keys unlocking doors

To distant voices,

Distant cries,

Distant shouts of joy.

How persistent the smell of sweat and perfume,

Blood and tears that once coated the dropped coins

That gave dial tones,

Got rejected as foreign currency,

Or were never used,

The caller losing courage to call.

So many slams of the receiver

Back into the phone cradle,

The fraying of the cord,

The phonebook rips,

The exit slams of the door.

And now…

Looks like my turn to find a new shelter

As the crane-claws hover and shadow-threaten

To make this piece of history next for the crusher.

Such remembrances but for a eulogy,

As I hurriedly make my way across the web

For the fly about to satisfy my farewell dinner need.