The Telephone Booth

A lonely sentinel on a busy street, The telephone booth, a bittersweet retreat. Its glass panes smudged with countless hurried hands, A silent witness to forgotten lands. Within its cramped and often dusty space, A world unfolded, etched upon a face. A whispered promise, a tearful goodbye said, A lifeline cast, from fears that filled the head. The scent of stale smoke, and perhaps a dime Forgotten there, a relic of past time. The yellowed pages of a tattered book, Where numbers lingered with a hopeful look. The rotary dial, a slow and steady spin, Connecting voices, letting feelings in. A quarter dropped, a click, a hesitant hello, A fragile bridge, where emotions start to flow. It stood through storms, through sunshine and through rain, Absorbing secrets, easing silent pain. A public haven in a world so fast, A moment held that couldn't always last. Now cell phones gleam, in every pocket near, The booth stands empty, holding memories dear. A fading icon of a simpler age, A poignant reminder on life's bustling stage. So let us pause and cast a backward glance, At this glass box, a vessel of romance And urgent calls, and news both good and bad, The lonely telephone booth, a story to be had. ©bfa040525