June 27, 2011

Boxes

I was born to a crib
spent my life in a cubicle,
and now rest in a box, 
watching mourners file by,
some smug, some sad, 
most relieved they are not me,
not knowing the relief is all mine.
Some glance, look quickly away,
some make a study of my face 
as they never did in life. 
Some few fear to approach at all, 
certain I will show them 
what they cannot bear to see.
Others look to me for an answer,
as if it were mine to give. 
Most are content to move along,
happy now, with nothing left to say, 
having done their bit, 
back into the sun, on to lunch
or the love of their life,
safe now, with me on my way,
breathing easy, humming 
that favorite little tune 
as they slide behind the wheel.


6/2011