I go through my box of coal
left on my doorstep, hoping beyond
hope
that it's not just coal,
that a bag of sweets might be
at the bottom.
some thoughtful gift.
a card, or letter sealed with
a red lipped kiss.
but no.
it's just coal. black and chalky.
cold soft stones.
the powder stains my
hands, my lips
when I touch them.
but it's a very nice box.
wooden. sturdy and strong.
It will hold my weight when I
turn it over.
it'll make a perfect stool
for the closet.
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