Brown Box Poem by William Coyne

I dreamed I threw away a little brown box,
that lingered in the corner of a place
I rented in the southern end of the Bronx,
for I found other functions for that space.

I woke and looked across my tiny room
and spied upon my mute adversary,
plotting its demise while I envisioned
uses otherwise to brighten my life.

An elm coat rack would stand nicely there,
to hold the wrappings of my treasured guests,
a small table to hold a lovely plant,
a run of shelves, a shiny brass lamp.

No protests came from my entrenched comrade,
indifferent to the coming judgment,
no whines, no mournful pleas for one more
day to stay the dumpster's yawning welcome.

And I, having no calling visitors,
no talent for caring of lovely
flowers, no nic-nacs to pass the long time,
no cash for one more decorative light,

sat on my only wooden chair beside
my simple bed and reconsidered the plan,
and the offending box that gathered dust
remained in the corner for one more day.