Sometimes I feel like an old telephone booth, tethered to the past.

(Do you remember those or have I become too dated?)

Clunky and square and extinct on a swirling globe dominated by sleek lines and handheld

portability and multifunctional capabilities.

(I am something with a justifiable existence, but not always efficiency.)

A payphone that gave your loose change purpose in exchange for a few words before the world

became ruled by plastic and microchips and wireless fidelity.

(I suppose I sound like the noise that dial-up internet made when I speak.)

Now, I am a solitary creature standing awkwardly at the corners, still trying to connect with

everyone around apps and filters.

(Instead, we drain time without saying anything.)

I’ve been roughly handled by time and evolution, passed over without a second glance.

(I am an antique and waiting for demolition.)

Have you forgotten about me, too?

Out in Public, Waiting for a Second Glance at 40

Tinamarie Cox lives in Arizona with her husband and two children. Her written and visual work has appeared in several publications, and she is also the author of Self-Destruction in Small Doses (Bottlecap Press). Find out more at