Ken Gosse
The Box
A pox upon the wayward box
between the elf upon the shelf
and gnomey gargoyle sitting there
protecting it in case you dare
to open it and look inside
and view the many dreams that died
throughout the years, the many fears
now tucked away where they should stay—
all but forgotten, many rotten.
Ripening still, some have a will
to tease with ease and haunt you till
the end of time left on your dime
reminding others, once you’ve left,
of reasons not to feel bereft,
that once you’re gone they should move on
beyond our common paradox—
that last unwinding of our clocks—
and not peek in Pandora’s box.