“Boxes”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

Boxes a younger self packed, in 1983

When it seemed quite amusing to be homeless and free

Now difficult to behold, from a vantage point so advanced

A product of choice and chance

Flung far down the road

Stuck in a trailer abode

Slipped into a time warp envelope, and sent to the stars

This remembrance of battle scars

And how they were earned

How these lessons were learned

Each fold of cardboard conceals a prize

That brings a tear of yesterday into my eyes

I would rather run from this sight

Much more content to sidestep the daylight

Yet as a gift, this delivery was bestowed

In the bed of a pickup truck, hauling its load

I might have declined to answer the door

A polite refusal of this everyman award

But with a twist of the doorknob latch

I netted a big fish, a fine finned catch

Batting its broad tail in my face

With the effect of a vision yielded by scholarly grace

This image in the looking glass, undeniably mine

Though reconstituted by the progress of time

I barely recognize the profile

An assembling of trinkets, saved from the rockpile

This must have been an impulsive act

To preserve such meaningless artifacts

Now, on the floor in my room, they are set

Blocking access to closets and cabinets

A distraction I did not require

Automotive spares, and a bicycle tire

A school desk from my third-grade class

A dimple mug, made of common, crystal glass

A trumpet in its case, ready to play

White shoes from a marching band, in western PA

Tape decks and bottlenecks abound

A set of hi-fi speakers, bereft of sound

Books and magazines

A faded pair of blue jeans

A quilt made in tribute, for an age long surrendered

From a county in the country, an anonymous burg

A lamp with no shade

A church bulletin, a mimeograph page

All of these useless things, and more

From a rented storage space, behind a rollup door

They are naggingly in the way

A roadblock gone astray

I sit outside in the cold exterior

Pondering my crowded sphere

Grumbling softly at the younger fellow who cast this lot

A boxed bounty of forget-me-nots

Fallen far into future days

Where guilt could not judge his reckless play

That simple sweep under the rug

Left a trail of breadcrumbs and bedbugs

Long and lasting into an eternity, undiscovered

An echo of events, now uncovered

With each strip of tape pierced and parted

Comes another round of reflection, on the departed

Whatever has been lost is found

Whatever goes around comes around

So, with a prayer for courage

I settle my rage

Silently, I sit, sort, and sulk

Each cube revealing its secrets, in bulk

Trash and transgressions

Before the setting sun

A load of consequences, left in the wake

Of a kid at the curb, burdened by his mistakes