The Box

At arms length from other boxes

On the outskirts of town stands a box,

Poorly protected by a flimsy slat fence

A thin hedge takes the full blast of the wind

Across the bare fields and over the quarry below.

 

Paper walls make for little comfort

And no cats swing here though they

Lap at saucers at the exposed back door.

The cheap settee fills the room, with the TV

Which sits on its altar next to the gas fire.

 

The small garden patch is shaded by the shed that 

Stands large on the patio next to the rusting barbecue.

The paint peeled garage door opens into clutter

Where the car seldom fits,

Idling instead on the tarmac on the front drive.

 

The local pub survives, just,

Its new brick blandness mixed with gassy beer

And a desperately bored clientele.

Frozen food, fried, microwaved, boiled.

Choiceless, characterless, tasteless.

 

The box, uninspiring, the bulldozed architecture

Of  (optimistically) a 100 years hence,

Thrown together, built with hopes and dreams,

Stands on the outskirts of town

An arms length from other boxes.