A Box For A Home


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.


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.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s