PMS 1255

A Poem by Broken Gavel

Thick-veined and gnarled, the roots plunge deep into the box. Generations of the same motion, father's muscle memory lifting again my cardboard coffin. And the shelves are lined with my dead dreams, and those of a thousand others before me. Bright eyes now caked behind years of Chinese dust. Wispy, ethereal office women drift in on perfumed air, smiling away the sad sight of impoverished youth. Lifting, placing, packing again. Comfort in repetition for some, a slow train chugging down the rails of insanity. Pit boss snarling, handlebar bristling as he watches another life consumed in his authority.

Pack away little sayings, drawings, mischievous things. Fired. Unacceptable. Free.