Mundane Treasures

I’ve walked in

In a pair of

Black oxfords

Carrying a bag

With a box of

Red pumps.

The red pumps

Get placed

On the throne

Of novelty

Every new pair

Earns in the beginning.

I’ve scanned

The shoe box

For a minute

More than two.

It’s sturdy and,

The cover has

No strings attached.

It stays,

For a storage

I’m yet to discover,

But I know

I’ll find eventually.

That’s the thing

With boxes;

There’s always something

To treasure in them.

Like the one

In the last shelf

Of my study

Of rosewood,

That I occasionally

Delve into

Perhaps in cotton shorts,

Perhaps in pencil skirts;

While the sun is at its peak,

While the moon has yawned twice.

Wrapped in black

With a piping of silver

On the edges.

You could still

Smell the leather

In it,

Or maybe that’s

Just my mind

Playing tricks

On my nose.

For it has the scent

Of the sea

In the sea shells

Wrapped in the

Handkerchief with

Purple borders

And my name embroidered;

Of the three marigolds

I pocketed on the trip

To the park;

Of metal

In the coins

I saved when the

Piggy bank wasn’t established;

Of ink

As the first

Fountain pen lay,

Stained in royal blue,


Of sandalwood,

In the empty bottle of perfume

That has a figure

I’m yet to find again;

Of buttons;

Of golden wrappers;

Of rainbow marbles;

Of laces and ribbons,

Of everything tiny

Ma would yearn to throw,

And I’d scavenged,

Shielded and,



That’s the thing

With boxes;

They treasure

Our mundanes

At prices

You couldn’t buy.


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