A Box of Dream

A Box of Dream

There have been seven years

of steady work.

The tidy restaurant is busy,

people come and go.

We are starting to relax.

Sometimes, folks buy an

ice cream.

Ours is not unlike a mining town.

We are owned, we are antiquated,

but, it is claimed, we do our business

above the ground

and there is daylight.

While I worked, I didn’t see it.

I didn’t see or hear much more than screaming machines,

in a dim light,

where I held my nose to the

stone long enough,

I forgot my name.

Now, I have to sign my cheques

with an X.

I dropped dead asleep

in front of TV last night.

It might have been exhaustion,

or the cruel glow.

When I awoke,

I vague remembered a box being

lost,

it was all done up

in a colour whose name I’ll never know.