Boxes Poem by Bill Smith

As skeletons bud to green
Roads cease to morph to
Beaches dressed for the night
When morning comes no sheet of white
Town and country meld to one
Leaving their boxes, no place to hide
As slaves to commerce
They take a ride
Where under arms yesterday’s events
Scream to be read from folded crease
Flowing with the pavement tide
Into daytime boxes large and small
Dependent on the scheme of things
Where they itch and scratch to climb the ladder
Playing A4 Chess to earn a crust and pay the piper
Amid the buzzing of the wires
Drowned by polyphonic Beethoven’s scales
Bringing news of someone dying
Maybe “ the baby won’t stop crying”
Noon arrives to spill its beans
Into countless little Italy’s plastic dreams
Where cups of tea have lost the battle
Too clouds of steam from foaming Dragons
Plain white neatly sliced
Lightly filled and overpriced
Lost among the grains and crusty
Every doorway holds your Oyster
Where plain Tomato has no place
And Peking Duck and hot Ciabatta
Hustle up against Tortilla’s
In bleak alleys veins are tapped
Cold tears accept a needle
Fingers click point time is up
“Back on yer' heads” no time to lose
Returning to boxes where pens need pushing
Heads are scratched, plastic chewed
Legs admired with furtive glances
Markets played with risks and chances
The bored make art of coffee cups
While photo copied rumours slip the vine
Clocks are watched with weary eyes
Counting the seconds one on one
Till’at last freedom cries
Boxes empty to smokey bars
Where just one drink before the journey
All too soon spills into three
Somewhere Pasta is growing ever larger
Filling steaming pans in lifestyle kitchens
Next to dormant must have gadgets
Waiting for the spark to life
Given by the three pinned servant
To Sandwich toaster, Electric knife
As waiting turns to White wine Spritzers
Clocks are watched “ hard days? ” delayed
Into the a bin the Pasta empties
Onto the pen in envelope shrouded
The one thrown down with ner’ a look
Wide eyes beseeching aid
Spare a pound to buy a Goat
Sink a well or fund a schoolroom
To salve a conscience pay a wage
Of some fat cat who spends their days
Lounging in the gift of your donation
Paying lip service to starvation
Hustle bustle into neon streets
Gentle sway from amber nectar
Into double decker boxes
Strangers to a man and woman
Eyes stare forward or out the window
No words spoken pleased to meet you
Day to day same old faces
Travelling to the same old places
Isolation of the mind
Feared to speak in case they find
Something they are not so sure of
Hand to stifle nervous tickling cough


Leave the box to open the box
Icy stare to wild eyed glare
Tread the rain forest neatly spliced
Felled to make the box look nice
Slippered feet to arm chair slide
Eyes close from open wide
Arms on hips sigh “oh well”
Nothing in the day to tell
Coat unhooked doors slam
High heels click to catch a man
Bit of loving, warm caress
Back seat fumble widows mist
It’s all boxes one to tother’
Pidgeon holed to suit the eye
Don’t fight the flow don’t question why?
Some they live and some must die
Moan about the stress of living
Flick the leather start the giving
Paper passed from hand to hand
Plastic feeds its own demand
Muffled groan, arms outstretched
A yawn a smile a “hello pet
didn’t hear you go out
Secrets lies and make believe
All intended to deceive
Days like this in times like these
All for one do as you please
Switches off, switches on
All too soon the whole things gone
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
Lived a life in love with lust