After dark, when I was fifteen
my jean pockets full of coins
for phone booths, class-enclosed,
metal-framed with rust and dust,
and fingerprints marking the years.

In the slots, I slipped my quarters
dropping like silver promises.
So many secrets whispered there.
Behind me a phone book, expired,
torn pages and numbers faded into nothingness.

From there, I called my boyfriends,
instead of our kitchen wall phone
coiled cord wrapped around me
like a snake holding me captive.

Like a confessional booth,
this small glass shrine
welcomed me until all coins ran out.

That’s where my parents could not find me
or return my calls.

I’d be home soon; they trusted,
bad boyfriends and psychedelics—
hoping the duo would guide me
in a world where you stood
in one place to be heard.