I’m sick of boxes, boxes, boxes everywhere.  Comin’ back in military planes, in the darkness,
Coming home.

I pick flowers, right out of other people’s gardens.
I look at their beauty for a while,
then take them home.
I put them in a box under my bed.
There are hundreds of them in a box that once contained a pair of Converse  All Stars.
Hundreds of them, all in one box.
Hundreds of them.


1 Comment

Filed under creative writing, Outlaw poetry, poetry

One response to “Boxes

  1. Hi. NIce poetry (though I hate to use the overworked word “nice,” I’ve been writing all day and better words escape me). I loved “Boxes,” especially liked “Bacon and Eggs,” and didn’t fully understand “Maids.” The others I was sort of “eh?” about, no strong opinion either way. But I still really like your voice; I fine it strong and refined of extra details in quality, standing alone for what it is. (Am I being clear? I hope so. Keep writing. Congrats on Freshly Pressed!)

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