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
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
great poem! Can smell freedom and the open road
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