Candace Butler, The Box

 My brother is a box among boxes. His ranch

style house a shoebox, each vehicle he buys

are giant boxes, squared-off; his keyboard,

a box, his desktop computer, boxes stacked

on the square screen; gun safe, boxspring

mattress, toolbox in the kitchen a layered

pile of boxes containing smaller boxes. And

the dresser, beside a speakerbox larger than

a cigarbox guitar, a harmonica by a boxy tv;

past cube windowpanes, empty windowbox,

he mows a rectangle in grass, green boxcar

from google maps. Then he boxes his hands

around cubes of ice from the freezer icebox.

His dog, a boxer, watches from a square rug.

 

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