The Collector Of Miniature Boxes Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

He accumulates them in all sizes and shapes.
They line any available flat surfaces of his home.
One is constrained to meander between the tables
and étagères at the risk of displacing a hip.

Some containers are made of rare woods, while others
of common balsa, and some of human bone or at least
claimed to be like the Tibetan ones, made of repoussé
brass or copper metals, silvered for added value.

Some boxes are adorned with semi-precious stones.
Stones and jewels have become allegories
for his individuality. As a matter of fact his personality
matches the variety of his speckled collection

down to his moods that often turn into the color
of greenish patinated copper with jaded overtones.
He often mentions for his ashes to be dis-
seminated inside his vast collection of boxes

and upon his passing to be tossed into the seas
so that in time, on foreign shores, children
seeking treasures would discover them washed ashore
and from one barely open they would see his soul

filter out escaping its gilt prison. And what about
the famous Russian lacquered boxes. He owns a pile
of those. Made in Palekh they are extraordinary folksy
works of art illustrating the magic of fairytales and

witches living in shacks propped on chicken legs.
After Putin's fishing and horseback riding and Karate
lessons are over that's where he's heading to be hanged
for his past KGB activities and be put in a custom-made

six-foot pine box.