Somethings Are …
better boxed away from intruder’s eyes,
like strange loneliness that only I can see
in those old B&W photographs,
a secluded house – lost the house key, twice.
Me, such a small pale object against
a dark background of pine.
I fell out of that swing tied to a branch,
rope broke, and my arm,
my fingers drawing Beethoven
out of the piano, I was six, the Christmas
tablecloth, reindeer stencilled
on the windows.
Red candles that smelled like
that tree that broke my arm.
I’d stared at its flicker, unblinkingly.
What are you thinking, I was often asked.
Mostly nothing, is the truth.
My head was mostly filled with nothing.
I wasn’t a crazed poet, back then.
I hadn’t opened that box yet.
Written for Twiglets #251 “Boxed Relics”. I think my box of relics is more like a stream of consciousness. Shared with #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021