strolling past a phone box

that suddenly erupts

with unprecedented clamour

puncturing a slow summer afternoon

with the possibility of drama

a wrong number, surely; a misplaced

finger, a digit missing, I mean,

who uses these cream

coloured coffins

for anything other than drug deals or pissing?

well, how can you resist?

step inside and lift the speaker

from the cradle

yes?

who’s this?

who’s that?

I asked first

Well I asked second

listen, pal,

I’m just a passing citizen

who reckoned

that passing by a ringing box

would be akin to ignoring

a cry for aid

some kidnapped victim perhaps

bound in a chair, temporarily unengaged

hand-set held to mouth : one false word

and they’re dead

or an isolated pensioner

aching for a human voice

from some distant corner of the map

but then again,

it could be a trap

the last time you were in one of these

a lolly stick stuck in a slot

caused a cascade of copper

but now you could be

caught in the crosshair of a lurking

rooftop sniper

your brains about to decorate the squares of glass

with a sudden explosion of red

a fresh interior paint job

your last conscious thought

left unrecorded

as the line

goes dead