Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

Iris Gribble-Neal

Pay Phones and Other Archaic Artifacts like Love

I miss pay phones, booths in the desert when the dust blows as certain as any compass pointing north. There's the long blonde in a beehive, in a baby blue Thunderbird top down calling for a tow, calling for gas, calling for any voice like cool water anywhere that might love her. I drove all the way to New Mexico to find a phone that played our song in dimes, thick nickels, quarters without states. I keep just missing the blonde now in sunglasses sequined for travel, white scarf triangled thinly under her chin. She only deals in travel on empty roads towards a horizon holding more than the sum of her past. I am hampered by markets selling orange fruit and silver earrings, by Raul in white linen smoking his slender cigarillo, by children and skinny yellow dogs with eyes of lost souls and no spare change. I hear a phone ringing through my body like electricity. As long as I don't answer, I can believe it is you. Intuition tells me it's the voice of the blonde cool like water, adjusting her rearview mirror to reflect only stillness in the wide and empty sky.