Welcome to my box.
It is a good box.
Most of the time.
Sometimes my box likes to shift.
Up becomes down and down becomes up.
It is quite annoying trying to figure out
If my head is on the floor or
Stuck on the ceiling.
Makes my hair a mess.
Sometimes the corners like to hide.
Disappearing for days at a time.
Only to reappear when I least need a corner.
Those sneaky little corners.
I should think about obedience classes.
Maybe round them out a bit.
But I love those sharp little edges
To shape them into someone else’s mold.
Sometimes my box
Disagrees with being a box.
It leans to one side
Becoming a parallelogram.
Or it shrinks and extends
Becoming a trapezoid.
This one I do not like.
I have to stoop and my neck
So when my box
Finally feels like being a box again,
I unfold upward like a scrunched accordion.
And I do not know about you,
But I do not enjoy being an accordion.
I think my box does this on purpose.
To remind me
That not all lines are straight.
Some bend and curve,
Lengthen and shorten.
Some warning would be nice.
Sometimes holes appear in my box.
Do not be alarmed.
They are friendly holes,
For the most part.
They show up
To show me glimpses of outside.
Every so often a butterfly finds it’s way in.
Those poor butterflies.
Some never make it back out.
Since those holes never stay still.
Always spinning, always zipping around.
Sometimes smushing those butterflies in their frenzy.
Sometimes smushing me.
But I have fingers to unhook those pesky holes.
The lines are squirming.
My box is becoming agitated.
It’s not used to extended company.
So I shall have to ask you to leave.
Be careful of the door.
It may change size on you.
And trap you between it’s bars.
Flatten bit by bit.
Until you become a permanent fixture.
A stray line in my box.
Which shall not do.
Shall not do at all.
Maybe you should grab a hole.
One by your head.
Out you go.
Please visit my box again.
You forgot your shoe.