Soulphone (poem)

What if I were to tell you the story of a man who worked in a towering office in the city, dressed in a suit like a cage and a tie like a noose?

What would you say if you heard that all day, he watched columns of numbers flicker and change on a shiny screen and to him, they meant nothing?

There’s something else though, he had a secret.

At the end of each week, he would descend many stairs to the ground (not before casting a scornful glance in the direction of the doors to that cold, metallic deathbox), pulling the noose from his neck as he went.

Once outside, he would move quickly and furtively through the streets, with many a backwards look as though expecting the sudden sting of an assassin’s blade.

He only began to relax when he neared the narrow sidestreet which ran behind old man Hardy’s barbershop.

A fair distance down this little avenue, he could see it. When he did, his back would straighten and the shuffle would depart from his gait.

Despite its size, the object of his desire was unremarkable.

The old phonebooth stood there forlornly, panes of glass either stained or shattered, wooden sides warped.

Undeterred, the man would venture inside and shut the door with newborn confidence.

For you see, my friends, when this fellow put the receiver to his ear and dialled the worn keypad, his voice is not what travelled down the line.

It was his soul.

By some arcane happening, his very being would journey through the network of cables and at last, he would find connection with others like himself.

This is how, even if for the most fleeting of moments, he was able to find solace and keep the loneliness at bay.