Molly In A Phone Box

On slabs of black tar wound like ribbons

Coddled Molly tups the receiver
And in the spiny shattered shards jewelling the concrete basin
she crunches glassy ground

Screwy face girl she wants to cry now,
she only grimaces, chin on collar
Chirping monotone back at her as she fingers the silver.
Daddy, she lost her key

Stark strip lamp light is blinding the booth,
inside mirrored on gunk spattered panes
But she imagines faces leering, prying. Beards, bottles
and needles wheedling through

Singles sauna, neighbourhood watching,
caustic artwork, rancid aroma
Finger warmed returned coins clatter and shiver in the cold box
The dusty webs look warm

Then lights on the ribbony road shine,
two deck buses hiss and sigh old air
Treacle night swallows the stars, she thinks she's the luminary
but she's not bright enough

and the top deck know it
and the ground do too

The coins laugh