The phone box

On a bitter cold day in june
the rain beat on me as if thrown
by the gods for spite,
and then cynically added
a sprig if ice
to glaze my nose
and enrage fingers.

I managed, with some resentment
to force open the durable door
of an old red cast iron phone box
despite the bitter cold wind,
who enaged it's might against me
as if I was intruding.

Alone, I peered outside through
fog covered glass, it's inch
thick persona gave little away
as the world passed by,
not my world, their world.

In this sound proof world
of nothing but looking out,
cornered in on all sides
by immovable constraints
and wind that would not change
I was moved to pain,
and deep thoughts forbade
me to ignore them.

Words flooded my head
as emotion shook my
very being and self interest
poked me in the heart.
Isn't this just life,
watching as we do
from the inside
as the outside world
of the skinny passes
bye as easy as fart
that no on heard,
while I lumber and roll
like a cold cut ham
on a white plate,
unable to change what I am
and still the fog grows
while the cold wind saunters
it's cynical frame as it does
always knowing that I can't,
being fat is the same
go into that telephone box
and you to will know it
and then you might smile at
me for the first time.

Terry Carroll