ODE TO SHOEBOXES

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cardboard cathedral, fortress of dust,  
you held galaxies in your corrugated ribs—  
a kingdom where spoons became swords,  
where thimbles gleamed like crown jewels.  

O relic of scuffed soles and weary feet,  
you were ark and archive,  
sheltering braids snipped in summer,  
ticket stubs from matinees,  
a child’s palm-smudged drawings  
of dogs with too many legs.  

They called you empty.  
But we knew better.  

You were the alchemist’s vial,  
turning nothing into everything:  
a teacup carved by stubborn hands,  
a dollhouse with wallpaper scars,  
a toy soldier’s trench lined with yesterday’s news.  

Father’s voice, rough as burlap,  
said, We had bottle caps and stones,  
yet here you stood  
a holy reliquary of enough.  

Beneath beds, you gathered ghosts:  
dog tags, a boy’s last letter,  
a photograph of Mother at sixteen,  
her smile a secret pressed between layers.  

When the new world became  
all chrome and neon and more~  
you remained, stubborn as a scar,  
whispering:  
The riches are here, inside my ribs.  

Now, as I lift your lid,  
the past exhales~  
a scent of glue and dime-store perfume,  
of hands that built castles from lack.  

O humble box,  
you were never just cardboard.  
You were the map,  
the compass, 
the keeper, 
the proof  
that life sometimes fits  
in a 13x8 shoebox.   

*this poem is part of the introduction to my soon-to-be-published book of memoirs titled "Shoebox Chronicles."

12th gradememorynostalgiarememberfree verse

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