The Box by Walter W. Quinn III


There is this box, small and shiny,

That within which all is tiny.

They would have to be, for to fit it all,

For into which the absurdly large would not fall.


It was created, large and by,

With no reason, there was no 'why'.

But it held, kept it's purpose,

Inside things that weren't to surface.


'Sweets to the sweet', some might say,

Others not so sure might stray away.

But, besides, it still be what she wrote,

It was a box, full of note.


Of course, far gone, she is now to me,

I opened that box again, and paid my fee.

As I pondered, reading aloud,

My face became a widow's, a dark shroud.


Milestones in this adventure, photographs of the past,

Folded paper, dripping ink, it all went by so fast,

A kiss remembered, a fine deed,

Memories now I do not need.


Why should one hide these wretched things?

A lover should not hide his rings.

"I've done nothing," I cry, looking in the mirror, "Nothing wrong!"

"Ha!" laughs the mirror. "Then why the face so long?"


Is it true? Does my other side truth tell?

Could it lie only with me, the reason why we fell?

I cannot believe! My love is true and fine,

But, anyway, I drink it with the wine.


I fold it up, take a sip.

It blends with the ink and begins to rip.

It does not break, but becomes tiny,

Into the box, so small and shiny.