There's a public phone 20 meters from my front door. There's a big sign that I painted, "PHONE". Sometimes I fantasize about destroying the phone, or fucking with the phone booth. Like, painting all the walls white and splashing buckets of red paint on the walls, or plastering it with personal ads from the other side of the planet, or painting glow in the dark messages for the drunks hiding from bears...
For the past two weeks, there's been a guy who is here to help build the harbor. I don't know what his job is. I think it's operating the dredger. Just a guess... but he wears the same clothing day in and day out. A black shirt with a southwestern collar, a white ball cap I haven't seen the advertising on yet and blue jeans. He talks for at least one hour a night. He always has his back to the entrance, leaning on the tiny shelf, probably inhaling urine, rotten wood and beer as he stares down hanging his mouth on the receiver.
Sometimes he sits on the small shelf, which cuts his head off from my view. I prefer him like this.
It has to be a woman he is talking to right?
If I had a different mind, I could think he was the Mujadim, or an alien transmitting coordinates, or a time traveler-risking his every cell to make proofs of us, or an angel trying to save us, or a simple man misplaced and lonely.... or just one blip on a screen that doesn't have more than two dimensions.
I think none of these things.
I wonder if I ever wrote poetry.