I can tell you from personal experience,
There wasn’t just one box.
Like the goddess Dolly Parton’s
With its mother of pearl buttons
Hanging on for dear life,
My closet is full to bursting—
Boxes, bags, vases, urns
Stacked Tetris-style floor to ceiling.
Trunks, crates, even a David Cassidy lunchbox—
Anything remotely resembling a container—
I’ve got hundreds, each sealed vice-tight
With fishing line, surgery staples or duct tape,
Padlocks, superglue, zipties.
Clearly a lesson here, but…
Temptation rings the doorbell
And there I am, boxcutter in hand.
Yes, I peek. Often.
As any learned scholar, or third grader, will predict,
An explosion of all the hells thus ensues
And I end up divorced, disowned or exiled.
Fired, fleeced, flattened, forsaken.
Sailing in a leaky ship sunk by my own stiletto.
Drowning in a misery moat of my own making.
What were you thinking, Ann?
I was thinking, which box next?