A Box For A Home

Poem:

He seemed not at his wits’ end,
Nor mad at the world at all,
A makeshift home was all he had
Beside a concrete wall —
A plywood box, large enough
To house his body small.

He wasn’t even begging,
Nor was he looking sad;
There seemed no real reason
To grieve or to be mad,
For the world seemed unrelated
To the little things he had.

When music fell upon his ears,
It was the wind’s refrain —
A threatening prelude to, perhaps,
The imminence of rain;
His neighbors were the alley cats,
Mewing all in vain.

And so the box had served him fair
Until the winter came,
As if to play an awful joke —
A cold, relentless game!
The box he cherished as a home
Could never be the same.

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Awesome! And thanks for connecting. Incidentally, as you might be aware, I am a novelist, with three novels to my credit, titled, ALL ABOUT BRIAN, THE LION AND THE SUN, BETTER LAZTE THAN NEVER. Please join my network and keep up the good work.

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