James H Duncan

Phone Booth in Tujunga, CA

yellow gold dust hills where that diner
tucked in among the pines and stone

our long talk of ex husbands and wives
over hamburgers and cokes spiked

with your flask of jameson then back
on the road but you left your smokes

inside and had to hit the ladies one last
so I took the moment to use the old

phone booth by the road, door whining
open and fishing quarters from my

pocket to call back east, could still
hear “Old Shoes (and Picture Postcards)”

from your open car window, and all
of the sudden I didn’t have anyone

to call, no number coming to mind so
important that I had to slide them quarters

home, so I didn’t, I just waited for you
and we climbed in and held hands going

faster and faster down those hills back
to the valley where we’d part ways at the

East Hollywood bust station that night
knowing it was a long shot we’d ever

see each other again, but knowing the road
held stranger things than a reunion for us

so who knew? not us, not the fry cook, not Tom
Waits, or even the bus driver stealing me north  

For more, visit: www.jameshduncan.com.

1 comment:

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