Eight-fifty on a cold Spring night.
My fingers for the third time
Tapping out eleven digits
In a ‘phone box on a wind-pressed corner.
A young woman in a cotton dress,
Windblown hair across her cold face,
Windblown cotton wrapped around her thighs
Cotton dress. Defeated flags flapping at her thighs.
Her pale face turned accusingly towards me.
Is her need greater than mine?
And I oblivious to all but these
Seven pairs of rings on an unattended line.
A sonnet of rings in an unattended room
Somewhere on the other side of town.