The Box

A box in an abandoned factory,
covered with, filled with the dust of dereliction.

When the building was stripped, all things of value removed,
this was left behind.

When other intruders like yourself crept into the vast rooms
for whatever nefarious purposes they may or may not have,

this was left behind, less valuable
than the empty beer cans and rotted blanket on the floor.

You lift it up. It is solid. Dry. There is use left in it,
as there was use left in the shell of a person that was you

not so many years before. A nail or two here and there.
Some stain and oil, and time

to restore the patina. And patience, yes that.
You take the box

no one else wanted, and leave
a bit more alive than when you entered.

About this poem. 

Actually, I left the box. But I regret it. I may go back.

Tom