Gift Poem by Francis Santaquilani

I was informed by fax
A while back
That there's a gift waiting
For me up north.

Which I'll never open,
But it's nice to know it's there.

Now and then
I close my eyes and see it, I see
Icy wind swirling madly
Over the box.
As if it's clumsily trying to tie
An elaborate bow, then untying it,
Then starting over again. I see
Snow shed from trees,
Falling like confetti
Thrown from skyscrapers.

But, I've no desire
To go up north
And wipe the snow off
His marker and
Shatter the concrete hard ground
To confirm
He's in the box.

There's some curiousity, yes,
And some proof would be nice, but
The fax will do. Besides,
I've too much to do
Down here, and I hate driving
On snow and ice.