That’s just life, you say
as you wrap things in old news paper,
a constant movement
we both smile.
a constant movement.

oh look,
in June 7th 2001 a group of exotic birds escaped from the city zoo, I say looking at the old paper.
I bet they didn’t take any boxes with them, you say gayly
(and your eyes are as bright as the first sunrise)
it was raining, I say
now looking at the weather page of the old paper
On June 7th
oh, you say
and laugh
and continue to wrap the lamp shade.
you can’t take boxes with you in rain, I think for myself
they’ll get wet.
you need more boxes, I hear you say from a far distance
as I was flying with the exotic birds.
oh yes yes, I say.

Mores boxes

I look around the room,
a large box of memories
a small box of time
and irregular shaped box of experiences.
Tiny box of darkness
(The one that was never opened)
a jeweled box of nostalgia.
and a box of.. ah
I feel my chest tighten
and the air gets heavier
as more boxes come in
one more here
one more there
they all need boxes
I am told.

look it’s raining
and in distance a ship is sinking
(filled with boxes)
I grab my umbrella
one more look
goodbye sweet boxes
and I walkout
ah it’s raining
and boxes would have gotten wet anyway.

box of stone
(for my body)
box of flesh
(for my soul)
box of cigarettes
(for my lungs)
box of lies
(for my past)

Washington, D.C.

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