Boxes

I carry the dust of fifty years,
borne on wooden pencil boxes,
dad's old cigar boxes, toy boxes,
a submarine made of moving boxes,
grandma's Christmas box
that came to the house, with perfectly wrapped
around neatly signed treasures from Santa,

a tackle box from Uncle Bernie
with fifty hand tied flies, Pink Ladies,
Black Flies, Bombers, Hoppers,
Mayflies, Midges, and a White Moth,
my box of Boy Scout badges,
with a bright embroidered serpent
symbolizing my herpetology skills
sat next to the Cutter snake-bite kit.
No one was ever bit, but I was prepared
to tie an arm off with the red cord,
cut two X's with the little razor,
and suction out the poison with the two ends of the kit,
boxes of college books, Siddhartha,
the Classic Maya, Geology and the Upanishads,
boxes of clothes for running, warming up,
and clothes that would never fit anyone,
the box of Dennis Kennedy's art his mother
accused me of stealing, which I didn't do,
and then he was found hanged.
I carried his coffin at age seventeen,
but I never told my parents,
because they hated him.