Small and musty,
growing old and rusty,
it was a faithful trustee.
Cleaners at home,
going corner to corner,
I had a moment of quiet,
to wonder and ponder.
I lost interest,
in my drawer of socks,
not wasting a moment,
I opened that box.
A morning conversation, clinging,
on a soft pillow feather,
a gentle night’s walk, gliding,
on a parched patch of grass,
warm sunlight, still shimmering,
on a forgotten eyelash,
an ethical glitch, unwilling to talk,
hiding under a broken coconut shell,
a promise, scribbled on a boarding pass,
with no name, number or what next,
a passionate night, reminding those earrings,
they should have gone home with her,
a goodbye kiss, drenched in love,
resting quietly with an old letter,
an idea, whose time had not come,
pencil sketched to a Handel’s concerto,
a lament, on a few orphaned coins,
so far away from their home land,
a yearning for writing, embracing a pen,
waiting for some deep black ink,
a stillborn poem, on a paper napkin,
hoping through years for a decent burial.
There I stopped.
Noticing I was a bit lost,
gazing into an old box,
the cleaners asked me,
or should we
throw away that box?”
I wish I could tell them,
that there’s an old soul,
wrapped around a velvet
cloud, hidden in that box.
But instead, I replied,
“I know it looks like rubbish
but let’s now clean
that drawer of socks.
Leave this one alone please,
I am saving this old box.”
Saturday 31st May 2014
Typed: 6th June 2014
Published: 13th June 2014