THE BOX

There once was a box of words
that sat on a poet’s desk.
It was a simple box
with simple words inside it,
as plain as bashful boys
at a dance. The words
wouldn’t make anyone
miserable or fascinated,
wouldn’t cause a person
to scream or smile. They
were simple and straightforward.
They spoke shyly among themselves,
wishing they could be chosen
to start a poem.
Whenever the box was opened,
they shone like youthful faces,
and one was usually selected
to stand on a piece of paper
as the very first word.

They knew they would each be chosen
someday, so they smiled
in their simple clothes
and passed the time pleasantly,

these words in the box
on the poet's desk.