Passing an ancient phone box brought back memories of days gone by, once so bright.
I dial 999
‘Emergency, which service do you require?’
Cleansing department, please
‘I’m sorry sir, Police, Fire, Ambulance or Coastguard?’
‘What is the nature of your emergency, sir?’
I’m unable to use this effin’ phone box,
It stinks of stale tobacco and prehistoric piss
Can’t use it like this
And someone puked in the corner last month
The evidence is still festering here
I can’t see through the windows
For the obscuring grime of time
The smoke smell from the ashes of my yesterday
For which I ever pay
The piss, taken by posturing political pricks
The puke’s faint odour persists,
a reminder of my desiccated past.
I’m sick of being tired and tired of being sick
‘I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to clear the line
Cleaning is not an emergency’
It is here
Do you not understand?
This box, like me, once so bright and essential
has been forsaken, overtaken by cruel fate
Is it too late? I need help
Can you hear me, mother?