The Phone

Just 75 years ago – alive and used,
Now here in the museum for the public to see.
My figure leaves the people confused,
So old and bulky, unable to see my sheen.
Sitting patiently in my wooden, glass, red phone box,
Waiting for unknown conversations to occur,
People coming to use me but never in flocks,
Paying money to use me, their talking so fast it was a blur.
Conversations so vague and hard to understand,
Connected through crackles by cables under the ground,
Not a prized possession, to be carried by hand,
There was only one like me, in the whole of this town.
My time is gone, I’m no use, not even a bell,
But my memory still holds of the tales I can tell.

Iiesha, year 9