“But everybody has a box of stuff”,
the eager young technician smirked – “so dig
yours out – we’ll find an ancient plug that fits,
and I can bring this piece of junk to life.”
Of course I have a box of stuff – enough
to dazzle any IT guy – and this
one’s eyes popped wide when I came out with it.
My box was bigger than the two of us
and the plugs were buried in a crunch
of wires, pots and pans, used Cuisinarts,
old jobs and bosses, enemies and lovers.
The smells of cities, foods and women slunk
into the room and danced around his head.
“How do you like my box of stuff?” I said.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Michael
Cantor would be pleased to hear them