My iPhone is having a Meltdown

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.

 

 

 

The Red Telephone Booth

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

Only numbers,

‘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

took over.

I closed the door, climbed into my car and drove off,

Heavy as a telephone booth,

into the arms of the booze bus.