Kilburn Phone Booth

Friday, 6 pm,
I'd just finished work so hastily found my way to my favourite drinking den.
It was a sunny day and they'd run out of beer so were selling cheap wine and cocktails out of warm plastic cups at discount prices to sooth the baying crowd.

My best friend was leaving today so it was my duty to join him in a mission into oblivion.
I did't want to be there waiting, like a punk, at the bottom of block of filthy flats looking for a hit,
I didn't want to be there in the room waiting for my friend to make it with the Brazilian from the street.
I didn't want to be there on my couch on Saturday, whilst the sun blazed its seldom rays,
I didn't want to feel like that on Sunday when I was dressed to impress, but failing to conjur any words of excitement and looking like a ghost in the sun.
But I did it.

21 years old off the street. Drunk, but not so disorderly.
Her friend was slumped on the street against the London brick walls with a bloke hanging around the shadows, waiting for his chance to pounce.
Sounds of shagging in the kitchen, whilst we chatted, knowing full well what he was doing, to show his own worth to us, because he can.

Her friend slept quietly, disgruntled, between us on the couch
"What are you doing next Friday? We should definitely all meet up. It would be fun."
But all she really wanted was another line of juice from the back of a second hand Ipad.

So I'd seen this phonebox a few days before at the end of my street, dirty and red, with signs of promiscuity, and the stench of the street.
"No smoking allowed" printed poorly on a sign of little significance.
Who was this talking to? I had little understanding, but it stuck with me.

I took the train back home, and sat with my shame on a single seat of regret,
Knowing the futility of trying to stop my own actions,
But feeling the pity of my own reproach.
I felt like feinting as the paranoia kicked in,
Usually the paranoia post takes a couple of days to arrive, but it looks like the postman had come early,
Maybe he was being paid double time.

I made it back to my familiar streets, strewn with rubbish, second hand clothes and Irish,
It felt comfortable though,
This is my hood.
I approached the phone box once more,
A man in front of me on his early morning stroll to get a paper, looked sharply to his left and grimaced, then kept on walking in his carefree world of abandon,
I found this strange.
I approached, looked left, read the sign and laughed to myself,
Then my laughing ceased as I saw the shadow of a hunched over figure inside the booth,
The strands of sunlight entered the box and surrounded it like a halo,
The shards of smoke, illuminated by the morning sun, drew me in, as I saw the pipe fall from her mouth and onto the filthy, sodden, stained floor.
The shadow lurched, picked it up and was ok.

I continued my walk
To face up to my own consequences,
Strangely I felt slightly better, knowing that there were others more pitiful than me on this summer's morning,
Now I know why that sign is there,
I'm glad it's not for me.

London, England : July 2013
https://soundcloud.com/martinos74