DESERT PHONE BOOTH

fifty miles from the interstate
in the middle of Black Rock Desert
riding on a rented bicycle
bound for Burning Man
stopping at the last phone booth
when the phone rings

within the absence of my shadow
and my lost soul
I let it ring five hundred times
before answering the calling cactus
from the motherboard of Burning Man
lighting up the booth one more time

after three hours of waiting
and trapped by the miseries of mystics
I heard her pause
then cough five hundred times
before turning off the lights
for the last time