A
Phone call
That will go
Ignored then on -
Static pours out from
The receiver until
I can hear your voice through it.
Let me drown in this soft white noise,
Let me sleep until I dream of you;
Your form flickers in my memories.
When the dial tone breaks the facade
And I'm left alone in the booth,
All I can think to do is
Rummage around looking
For just one more - oh,
That quarter was
The last one
I had
Left.
Sitting in a diner booth
Is cozy and inviting.
To me, such places are, in truth,
The tables most delighting.
When offered booth or table,
There’s no contest; I will choose
A booth which will enable
Me to chill out and enthuse.
At dinner, I like atmosphere
And candlelight and chairs,
A place to sip an ice-cold beer
And wait while food prepares.
Yet for breakfast or a lunchtime meal,
My preference tends to be
A diner with the main appeal
Of booths for friends and me.
My husband likes a table most
But will not raise his voice
When we end up in, you might have guessed,
A booth. (He has no choice!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The expresso machine hisses,
its steam whispering secrets~
morning's slow ache dissolves
in remembered promises.
I unfold my hands on the table,
press my thumbs into the laminate,
counting the knife scars
you once traced with your finger
as constellations.
The door jingles.
I watch the door open
wanting it to be you, Tilly.
I want it to be you so badly.
A small animal in my ribs
whimpers Tilly,
as if the universe might shrug
and give you back,
steaming from the rain
in that ridiculous leather jacket
you stole from your brother.
The barista calls order up
for someone else’s life.
I stir my spoon in circles,
watching the foam collapse
like all the things
we didn’t say.
In debt
with a dollar’s
down payment
on lies
Veracity
hiding
the truth
in disguise
Intentions
repaving
the highway
to hell
With blood
on the toll booth
and lye
— in the well
(Dreamsleep: November, 2025)
Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt.
Blink razors carve her iris script.
Rib stars ovulate in feral grates,
mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath.
Keystroke ruin writes in collapse,
a waveform lodged in sternum glass.
Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim
Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts.
Tree-call through copper root systems.
Wire-pluck storm,
vapor chews the stock market
Cancer caught in molar hush,
brined in citrine static.
She opens her throat like a coin purse.
Spine bows in semaphore.
We dismount the edge—
An incisor cusp,
the confession still blistering
beneath the flesh of no language.
dotherant's hardened mule
news of numbers and yearling's pew
ardvakians, mustering askance the dairy
frolic, adhere, nearer, when forward
finding in country
beliefs?
how have you been beaten?
never the please you say
smiteful river of dirt you burried?
startled priors, trampled by grass weavings
I shall share a terrain with newalking briarly today
in the moss groves of yourn I will a, wait
To tell the truth, I love a booth
When eating in a diner.
You can’t dismiss such coziness
As something you’d call minor.
For it is clear that atmosphere
Adds much to meal-time pleasure
And booth-type seats improve your eats,
At least the way I’d measure.
Be careful, though, for in your row
If someone leaves the table,
You’ll have to rise and leave your fries,
Their exit to enable.
Still, such a nit does not one bit
Make booths lose their attraction.
Their cool appeal grants any meal
A certain satisfaction.
An old gaunt lady
With feeble steps
Walked to the red telephone booth
On the roadside pavement
Every day she dialed a number
And spoke inaudibly into the receiver
As tears streamed down her crinkly face
This continued for an hour
Until she resigned for the day
Hoping for another heartfelt conversation
A baffling mystery unsettled us
Spectators to this daily drama.
The angel works the tollbooth
Exclaiming commands for change
They are a barber on the side
with faded tattoo arms
Holding shears made of fire
coated in silent pious rage
Hiding blood in their thermos
Waiting for a Judgement day
Dressed in 'Down's Syndrome,' the children
set up a phone booth on stage
inciting audience rage
when E.T. refused to phone home
The woman in the next booth was gorgeous
Ronnie started to introduce himself
Then he saw the cigarette
His mother had been a smoker
He could not abide the stench of it
The smell of nicotine curdled his nose hairs
He walked rapidly away, wishing she was not a smoker
But alas, she was, so they were not meant to be
The woman stared at the handsome man who had left
For a second she thought he was going to speak
But then he turned and ran
As if he had seen a werewolf
Your "I love you" is like a noose
And your touch is
a touch too cruel
You swore you'd treat me apple pie sweet
I should've tasted the cyanide
Known you were killing me
But now you're all stuck
In my lungs
Cigarette smoke
It's a slow choke
You'll never let me free or
Leave me alone
Goodbye love
I'm hanging up the phone
These bastards styling as men’s movers
From their short trips expect universe;
Traveler to pay for bag in booth
Or get ready to lose his front tooth…
I’m the sorely aggrieved passenger
Usefully turned God’s messenger.
You don’t passenger try to clean through;
Your cheap hapless lies make out as true,
Voices sounding like owners might die,
If they should be asked a probing “why?”
Now, I see a business of necks squeezed,
Until moisture drops, no pressure eased…
A once-good driver turns a dummy
From grabbed money bulging his tummy;
Sure-to-invite tears obesity
That shortens dear life without pity…
“Traveler not the same as his load,”
Say Nigerian drivers on the road…”
Villanelle L Milton Hankins Aug 18th, 2022
A Corner Booth and Eggs Benedict
The mood needs to be just right
Candles lit and flowers placed perfect
So fun to be in the spotlight
Winds of fortune caress this site
Our guard down, never circumspect
The mood needed to be just right
Ambiance fills the room tonight.
This dance is ours we reconnect
So fun to be in the spotlight
You played Wallflower's “One Headlight.”
Wine poured brings that care-free effect.
The mood needed to be just right.
Through stained-glass window pours moonlight.
Last dance, a time for introspect
So fun to be in the spotlight
About to see the days first light
A corner booth and eggs benedict
The mood needed to be just right
So fun to be in the spotlight
The lies people believe mount like hills of trash at a dump!
Trees are chopped off the family tree, leaving only a stump
All I can say is, it’s not too late to research for the truth
Save your life and forget the mainstream media’s lying phone booth!
Heidi Sands
10/9/21
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