Sonnet #367

 I have a box I keep for my beloved

Inside this box, I wait to be adored

When I get home from work, I shove

Myself into this box, and when they’re bored

They let me know how good I am

For waiting in the box. I am petted. 

Take me out and feed me toast and jam

But outside the box I am hated

A simple metaphor, I know, but listen more

For there are boxes inside boxes, outside boxes

There is no polite society without the box stores

Where we choose ourselves, and move from boxes

To other boxes like molting skin: boxes slam

Into each other, and bruise our skin