The Box

a poem by Roger B Rueda

has stiff sides, it is too dark inside to see much.
Yes, your imagination is vivid, like a kite
flown in the air, with a long string attached
which you hold while it is flying.
You dandle every sheet of veneers,
every crevice and every chasm
of life and your whole fantasy.
You hypothesise and speak
words of great wisdom.
You surmise when there is so little
to go on, to live on.
You believe you’re telling –
an immortal, a god (with death).
You speak of adages and dictums,
your mouth sharp and quick-witted,
your words fire to the shivering depth.
Outside, the box is a presence wrapped
in a pink SM gift wrap, its ribbon
a roseate satin strip, likeable and secret.
By it are a Galaxy S3 and my bag.
After a while, the birthday party begins.