They were dark buttons
in a public booth
Numbered and starred
And bulged out
On a yellow box
Coaxed and whined
Smooched and smashed.

Women in veils
Pressed them hard
And gasped
behind the lanes they crossed.
Running away, hasty.

The glass door closed
Peeping in,
the secrets left bare
land to land
Of over heard symphonies
of unkept hair.

They stood there
Dark and inviting
On street end corners
or on narrow highways
men from work
to let them taste
contours of their home made
dinner delicacies.

The glass panes had
loves etched
In marigold white.
Epitaphs of burdens buried.

Men kissed
And women drained
Over the plastic warmth
and curves of buttoned libido

The cramped interior
With a caller id
And hanging receiver
In the rabid chase
and burning powders
Of a faked revolution.

They are the black holes screwed
When nights passed by.

A call of the wild
From a bolted cubicle.


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