This row of payphones on Broadway,
beside the door of Metro Diner
(beaming fluorescent light),
not exactly a row, two of them, a pair
of lovers, broken. The sign—
Cracked lip of receiver,
the part where you hold it
to your ear. Gaping wound,
pieces of wire sticking out like a brush.
Want to hold it in the crook
of my shoulder, and make the call—
whoever it is I need to call, maybe
someone to tell me this place
where we walk (or I walk
alone), isn't really broken.
Listen to the fire truck
roaring, not like a phone,
but it keeps ringing down the street,
then everyone forgets where it has gone.
The fire of these phone wires sticking out,
the booth where no one (it seems) is hungry.