This Thing Of Little Boxes Poem by Bill Grace

On a morning when poetry whispers to me
The world does not automatically
Grant a blessing toward success
The new pen wanting testing
Demands a screw driver for release from box
And being released, though never used, rewards me
with a broken clip for thanks.
The screw driver box surrenders its piece
But protests with spewing anarchy.
On a morning when poetry whispers
This thing of little boxes can be a drag for me.