Sunday, January 24, 2016


I'm starting to look at a lot of boxes.

Over months,
we acquire so many boxes.

As we age,
as we move,
as others age and move,
we acquire so many more boxes.

Each box represents

something special
to someone
from some point in time.

From some point in history.

From when the dinosaurs roamed,
it seems sometimes.

You eventually have to re-open the boxes,
assess the contents,
determine what to do.

These special boxes
contain the evidence
of our youth,
of our family members,
of our ancestors. 

They existed.
We existed.

And we made really shitty crayon drawings.

We also paid a lot of bills
and read a lot of newspapers
and had a lot of things.

How to preserve ourselves,
our youth,
our family to come,
our family before us?

How to tell the universe
we existed,
we will exist,

and that match books
used to be the super-cool way
we proved we visited somewhere?

I don't have the answers, of course,
but I will say
that if you unearth a box
with my name on it,
you can probably just toss it out.

I will try to prove my existence
in other ways,
leave my legacy,
make my family proud,

and hope to sweet baby holiness 
that my drawings have improved over time.

-C McG

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