Booth

In the rain‑slicked corner of the high street,
A red telephone booth stands, stoic and neat,
Its glass panes misted with breath of the past,
Where whispers of love and farewells have lasted.

A coin drops, a dial turns, the receiver sighs,
Connecting voices beneath grey‑tinged skies.
Inside, the scent of old paper and polish,
A tiny sanctuary where thoughts may flourish.

Now neon flickers where the booth once stood,
Replaced by screens that hum in a restless crowd.
Yet memory lingers in the fog‑kissed pane,
A quiet echo of calls made in vain.