I wake up, and pull back the covers in my box
to the sound an alarm ringing on my box.
I walk from my box into the box.
I step into the box; soap and rinse.
I open my coldbox to find something for breakfast.
I take my kids to the schoolbox.
I climb into my box and drive to work.
I stare at my box; type on my box; answer my box; write notes on a piece of box;
eat leftovers for lunch in boxes; and at the end of the week
I’ll get a box to take to the bank that’s worth lots more boxes.
This way, I can go home to my family in our big box,
where I can sit on my box and watch my 60-inch box.
Or read a chapter in my favorite box.
Maybe if I save enough boxes I can buy an even bigger box.
Or a new box.
And when I die they’ll put in me in a box.
