Hugh Cook
The Box
It doesn’t matter, of course, whether
The box exists or not.
The artwork, those watercolored, dripping
Pastel peaches, and limes: The Sweet Life,
Those calligraphic lyrics
Aren’t even mine, or
The Artists.
“I still have your stuff,
The art you made me, in a box.”
I can picture each piece so clearly,
Each tribute to the momentary,
I feared my scribblings were ash, or just dust.
The little part of us,
In that box that still sings,
When you lose yourself in memory.
Those could only be ours,
Such old feelings,
Like smells immortalized
In a shirt.
Hugh Cook attends University of Santa Barbara, California, studying Writing and Literature. His poetry has been published in Tipton Poetry Journal and The Catalyst literary arts magazine.
The Box
It doesn’t matter, of course, whether
The box exists or not.
The artwork, those watercolored, dripping
Pastel peaches, and limes: The Sweet Life,
Those calligraphic lyrics
Aren’t even mine, or
The Artists.
“I still have your stuff,
The art you made me, in a box.”
I can picture each piece so clearly,
Each tribute to the momentary,
I feared my scribblings were ash, or just dust.
The little part of us,
In that box that still sings,
When you lose yourself in memory.
Those could only be ours,
Such old feelings,
Like smells immortalized
In a shirt.
Hugh Cook attends University of Santa Barbara, California, studying Writing and Literature. His poetry has been published in Tipton Poetry Journal and The Catalyst literary arts magazine.