Ode to the Telephone Booth

You stood. Steely gray and aqua, not so quaint as in literary description. Rather tacky next to your historical sisters, heather greens, country blues, and rustic red. Oh 3 by 3 demonic clot thou art to surge in the veins of blessed preservation. Thy very presence provokes the sagacious dignity of the native masonry. Thy arrogant gaze attempts to convince the natural that you belong. Without cause you play the part but time honored elements are intolerant. Like nouveau riche in this land of old money you turn your back where you face the lowers, where you are better and taller and higher. You attend the prophetic apocalypse of antiquity which fortells a place in time when you shall belong because generations will have served you with righteous inheritance when cracks in the mortar and rings of the trees cry infantile praises to your rusted wisdom. Come back then? Be not a monolithic blight on our Rock. Ease on down the road where history neither begins nor ends. Then you can ring your bell, show your goodtime numbers and collect your sticky moths. Then we can live preserved.