William Soule The Lobby From the lobby—the rows of egg-shaped lights reflecting off the glossy surface of the floor, and the few people left, already heading home after hugging and catching up about the farm life back east and south, raising chickens and milking the cows—I lean by the phone booth, anxiously holding my last two quarters, wondering when Father will arrive to scoop me up with a hairy arm in that tight embrace I haven't felt since he left us like stray pigs in Dixie Alley. Outside, a dark rain blankets the city and I slide the two coins in and listen to the male voice, monotone: the voice I almost confuse with warmth, with anything besides an empty lobby, an incubator hatching a lone chick crying for the beak that would never crack the glass. |