Phone Booth

Stuck in a phone booth
no quarter, phone dead
Prying the words
out
pulling, shout
from my ears. Left one hurts,
from the struggle. Right one’s glad
it’s over.
Piddling the different letters, rearranging
words, small number of aural images that
have created this
chosen reality,
mine.
The air begins to close, and
perceptions change.
Simply juggled A, B, C’s.
Lean back against the wall,
take a long, slow, drag.
I fall through the door, the wind
gushes, lurches, lands
and I am frozen. I crawl up on
my knees and walk away
a changed
man.