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Boy In A Box


Rusty Broadspear

Five in the morning, I lay curled in my box

At the side of some road somewhere.

I heard nature yawning and scratching its derriere,

The first of many pollution peddlers zipped by.


I like the mornings,

The Sun felt hot on my box.


I was sleepy, so I pulled off the road.

Rubbing my eyes, up ahead was a box, 

A boy, about mid teens, crawled out.

Camouflage coat, worn blue jeans,


Tanned face topped with yellow hair.

“What’s this kid doing there?”


I took off my coat and folded my box

And crossed the road to a car that had stopped.

The driver in his forties with shirt and tie

Looked like he’d just been rubbing his eyes.


“I want a lift to wherever you’re going.” 

He let me in and only then did I chill.

 His coat and box on the back seat

I looked down at sandals on his feet.


I was about to turn the key

When it attacked me tight across the chest

Pains down my right,

I silently screamed as I lost the fight.


I saw the sweat popping through his furrowed brow

And knew the time was now.

I reached for his hand and

Silently said, “You must go home”

“You will never have this pain again.”

I left him slumped against his side window.


I was glad I had stopped, I awoke refreshed.

As I pulled out I saw a hitchhiker

Climb in a 4 x 4 and join a young family.


It brought back the weirdest dream.

A dream I could never tell

Because as Bishop of this Parish

It scares me to Hell.


I don’t like evenings, the closing page of a day,


But then the job is done and who am I to say?

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