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Poem

The toy box made of plywood painted white
my grandfather built for me when I was three
has become a time machine
a tool of torture
Why haven’t I burned its contents to ash
as I did all his letters full of lies?
Within I find notebooks in which I penned 
my pubescent musings that seem so silly now
First attempts at poetry 
that sound trite today when read 
with a much more mature tongue
that has tasted the bitter brew of experience
Scribbled quotations from history’s finest minds
Sketches of dresses I designed 
A crumbling corsage of carnations 
still sealed inside its plastic shell 
for the last twenty five years
that he pinned to my pink Victorian taffeta gown
I can close my eyes and recall 
its fresh flowery scent
feel the silky petals under my fingertips
the gentle cool early autumn breeze 
blowing over the river on my young supple skin
that single night of my life 
when every star in the sky
seemed to be shining solely for me 
I had hope then

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