The Telephone Booth
Fresh Meadows, NY
2022, Junior, Poetry & Spoken Word
x.
the sound of waves is endless. perpetual.
it is so loud, yet everyone ignores the telephone booth,
the bright, blood red stall at the shoreline.
would it help if you picked up the phone?
(but you know that everyone has to see it, has to hear it for the sound to stop. until
then, it gets warmer and warmer and warmer and)
xx.
inside the telephone booth is solace, you think.
(because at least the noises are quieter.
because you didn’t have to think about your guilt.
and you wonder, still, if you tried harder or just used one less plastic bag
all those years ago, would the outcome have been different today?)
you pick up the warm, red phone.
“hello?” a light voice says, “can you hear me?”
(the voice sounds familiar, almost like an old friend you haven’t heard from in awhile.
the ocean calms in the background, but it beckons to you still. always.)
you hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should reply.
you don’t.
the person on the other side laughs. “tell me,
do you know what’s at stake here? or
will you continue to ignore what’s in front of you?”
the line cuts.
all you’re left with now is the constant echo of beeping and a pitiful closure.
(as if on cue, the waves begin again.)
xxx.
the funny thing is that you’ve always known what to do.
even when you were standing in the telephone booth, drowning in your guilt,
you’ve always known that there was only one answer.
(as the oceans rise and the glaciers melt
when birds cease to sing, and all you’re left with is ruin,
what would you do? what will you do?)
o.
so you speak up.
about the damage to our planet, our home.
about everything, all the things we need to change.
it’s not perfect by any chance, but you’re trying, and that’s enough.
(and maybe one day, when you feel like you’ve done enough,
you’ll go back to the telephone booth,
and finally reply.)
Reflection
Living in a large urban city exposes you to a lot, including pollution. On particularly bad days, the smog can be overwhelming. Litter is everywhere on the streets. Temperatures reach up to 100 degrees before summer even starts. It seems like no one is talking about this potentially catastrophic issue. Everyone knows that it exists, but we humans are just collectively ignoring it. My poem was based on the idea that one person can spark a chain reaction. “You” and “the Voice” are the two sides of the same person—namely, the reader. I wanted to convey that since we are mostly aware of our current situation, we need to take action now before it’s too late.