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.