BOXES

 

It's time to face that room

and all its sundry clutter.

Old stuff he kept for years:

opera magazines, sports trophies,

brittle yellowed journals telling

of obscure endeavours long ago;

the passions and activities

that cause the junk of decades.

 

I open the door and greet

my own past too - I played here

in a cloud of fantasy and aspiration,

small kid on floorboards

measuring the frantic world before

it rushed forward like an ocean,

leaving childhood beached

and packed away in boxes.

 

 

Published in Pulsar Poetry Webzine, November 2018