Silver Box on Route Nine

There's a silver box beside Route 9,

Half covered up by weeds and vines,

Most folks drive past without a glance,

But I keep that old phone in working hands.

My daddy used it after midnight shifts,

Twenty years ago when the factory quit,

He'd call my mother

just to say, “I'll be home when the morning breaks.”

So I keep the last payphone alive,

For a voice that needs to cross the night,

For words that waited way too long,

For someone who needs to hear,

“I'm home.” You never know who's standing there,

With an old goodbye hanging in the air,

So I leave that little light turned on,

For one more call before it's gone.

Last Tuesday night beneath the rain,

I found a number scratched beside the frame,

Seven digits, faded blue,

I wondered who they once belonged to.

I called it just to hear the ring,

An old woman answered after three,

She said, “My husband called that phone,

Every Friday night when he worked alone.” She told me he never

made it back,

But every Friday she still waits like that,

I didn't know what words could mend,

So I just listened till the silence ended.

Now I keep the last payphone alive,

Under that old blue roadside light,

For every heart that can't move on,

For every voice afraid to call.

Maybe someone's waiting somewhere tonight,

Maybe one small ring can make things right,

And if nobody calls before the dawn,

I'll still leave that little light on.

There's a silver box beside Route 9,

Still holding stories after closing time. (mmmmm)