An Empty Wooden Box
I found within a hidden place,
an ancient wooden box that I'd forgotten.
I took it to my room—then raised its lid—
and, listening, heard its worn out
hinges creak and moan.
Within I found, likewise unremembered,
10,000 little slips of paper on which were written
things that you and I had said and done,
places we had been,
and names of friends we once called ours.
But I am old and nodded off to sleep.
And in those hours arose a wind that carried them away.
Now here I sit within my forlorn room—
alone and in the dark—
with just an empty wooden box.
Sorrow for the victims of Alzheimer's.
December 16, 2019
Your Best New Poem
Emile Pinet
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2019
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