Sunday, July 26, 2009

The Box

I've run over it three times
it's sides unfolded exposing
cardboard emptiness -
a bit of tissue off to the side
that once held a gift.

Twice now, the box has caught
dragged along under the car
like a kid tailgating on an icey
winter street, but this time
there is no laughter.

I'm sure that little box has sat
there defiantly for over a week
ever since it spilled out from
one of the party bags
early last Sunday morning.

It doesn't matter if it disintegrates
fades or blows away. I won't pick
it up just as I won't clean the side-
board, hang up my clothes
or fix my fallen hem with anything

but a safety pin. Every little trail
leaves some evidence that I exist.
Drawers stuffed with poems, hair
in the sink, a cup rimmed with lip gloss.
Feel free to curse me when I am gone.

I am not home.
I am not home.
I have never been home.

1 comment:

Bill Shakepeare said...

This is poignant

Please don't run over my 'box'