There is a misdeed where,
on a corner of Hunter Street,
a phone box sits in a puddle
like a flamingo in a storm,
yet it's not pink. It's a dull

shine with legs protruding
out of its sea, a lone oil rig
with an open mouth to enter
in which (you would hope!)
some black gold would pour

out of its receiver and say,
Press your fingers to me,
then my hand to your cheek
and I would stand there
drowned in those thoughts,

my feet also being rig stalks
as I would hold your hand
to my face, my other leaning
against your body, then only
to gather a simple “Hello.”