Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Boxes

With a hasty desire,
yet frazzled, palms itching,
you transplant your trickster boxes
into trash in repeated dashes,
boxes of wounds or peripheral magic
flashing from edges of the past
now bound with ruffled spirits.

Silencing the rat that packed your clutter,
you hold many a scream inside
but, in disguise, let a smile stretch
as goodbyes to your demons
neatly in those boxes
while the undertone of the mind whispers:
“A slapdash life must tidy itself before its end.”

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Prompt: a cardboard box or boxes