I leave my charger at home.
I’m gone for three days out in the country.
It’s not as bad as leaving your defibrillator at home
[ if you had one ] or your meds
But it’s up there.
No other charger fits.
My iPhone is having a meltdown.
What am I going to do? It says.
Chill, I say, chill.
You’ll make it. Just.
More importantly, what are YOU going to do? It says.
True, I say, true. Use you less?
We’ll pretend we don’t know each other
for three days.
Deal? I say.
Deal, my iPhone says.
We shake hands.
It’s all cool.
No one writes poems about telephone booths anymore
So I thought I would write one,
about the time I drove down
A series of side roads to avoid a booze bus,
when I almost ran into one.
It was so nostalgic.
It was the sort of booth that Clark Kent would dash into
to change into superman.
I opened the door and went inside.
It stank of stale urine and cigarette smoke.
The paintwork was peeling. There were no phone books
‘if you’re after a good time call …’, that sort of thing
and anti-gay graffiti.
It looked like
the last telephone booth on the planet before mobile phones
I closed the door, climbed into my car and drove off,
Heavy as a telephone booth,
into the arms of the booze bus.