The Box

The Box

The man who made this box believed 
The world could use another. 
Some things that were out needed 
Something to be kept inside of.
Or maybe he didn’t make it 
To store anything in, but to make 
The amorphous air particular. 
He made it slowly. There was no 
Need to hurry. He wanted the box 
To be a good one. There was a chance 
It would be his last. It was with regret 
That he left it when she called him 
In for supper. What are you making 
Out there? she asked him one night. 
A box, he said. What for? she asked.
Lot of things have to answer for 
What they’re good for, he said,
But I’ve never known a box to 
Have to. Is it for me? she asked.
Could be, he said. Then you better
Buy me some things to put in it,
She said. Like what? he asked.
Like clothes, she said. Oh it’ll close,
He said. It’ll open too. Funny,
She said. I thought so, he said.