Snails in a Telephone Booth

Tonight, I remembered the waiting in a phone box:

The glimmering light

no one repaired

like a match in the rain

deprived of the warmth

from a collar, food box, or spark

I walked here, seeking refuge from the rain

Inside, an emptied beer can

A person drunk here

twenty years, waited

for the payphone to ring, didn’t know

who would tell him a story

Phone box at the dead-end

of the street. I couldn’t pass over

this aged wall

in front. There was once a door

opening to seashores. Now,

blocked by ivies

like many hands trying to grasp air. Here

I stayed. To tell them a secret

A tram faraway heading this side, ringings

at night rusted,

unlike knives’ cuts

anymore. The tram’s doors

must’ve seen so many farewells,

promises unredeemed like See you soon

Tram stopped

at its station. Its shadow pressed against

trash on the road. The lit cigarette

someone picked it up, smoked it,

dropped it

I couldn’t see his face clearly

but I imagined he had a break-up, lost

the ability to cry

Tram stared

at me in its silence. Left

In the rain, leaflets of lurid colours

slid down

gluily, like a diligent snail

As if someone left a letter here

years ago, once opened

would melt. We had seen

each other,

somewhere together

felt hope’s & hopeless’s rotation

in that moment—there’s light, I knew—

­To grasp contingencies

& To wear them as our skin

—Dr Eric Lui

Translated by Xavier Leung