Sunday, April 23, 2017

 

The Small Box


Old was she but fairly chipper.

She led me on a tour of her attic.

"Just ancient junk!"

In tangles and jumbles and piles.

Innumerable newspapers and magazines,
both yellowish-brown.

On extremely stuffed, large floral,
furniture. Atop all that, arthritic rockers.

Walls held gummy photographs of people
looking continually surprised.

After a bit, I felt covered in dust myself.

Finally to a locked room in the eaves.
Very sparse and neat. Just a small table
holding a mini cigar box.

“A record here of the truly rational decisions
I made during a long life.”

“Not much?”

“An awfully small part of existence.”

“Well, yours.”

That set her a-cackle!



 

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