Her Box

The red box stood on the town green, her insides confined in her own space.
Across from the pastel blue shop, wedged between the back fence of the newly built housing estate and the love nest, the riverside café.
What does it all mean?
Maybe I've drank too much and they're really things that aren't there, who knows anymore. I've listened through her door long enough to know the sounds she makes when she's closed.
And when she's open.
The telephone drop, the scrape of loose change pressed into her hole.
She never misses a night to exchange details.
It's like they've broken each other down.
She knows everyone in her small town.
She invited you round hers, into her home
They ought to know.
You can't hide your secrets on the phone.
The once crowded field surrounding the cul de-sac of the expressionless trees surround her, remained stuck in place, a deep shape emerging when the sun set and she slept.
No more whizz happening behind the line of trees.
No, not these days anyway.
The red paint flakes wearing thin along the corners of her lips and along the sides of the very box that I'm standing in, wondering where my life left me, where it's gone, where it's been.
And I ask myself, "Where do I begin?"
Should I pay for a long time call?
Maybe I should buy the whole space, give it my all?
But, no, I've drank too much, I must have.
It's known, well it should be.
No longer could I be me on the phone.
Maybe I should go, have a rest, call it quits.
Go home.
Maybe I'll ring her on the telephone.