A poem about a box that I’m building with off-cuts of floorboards, and the sense of satisfaction it brings when it fits together like a jigsaw. Although the jigsaw simile seems a little obvious here, which is why it didn’t make the cut.
I’m building a box.
Not flat-packed with a language-less diagram,
Not put together with a freebie Allen key,
But a pirate chest, an oak trunk,
With walnut grains that I’ve brought out with oil,
That runs and sets as if it were alive
Into the furrows and gullies of the wood
And my fingerprints.
Six slats of laser cut wood
Click together in clockwork alignment,