the lost box
why did you think cardboard and scotch tape would be enough
for a thousand mile
greyhound bus trip to boston
stowed away below
before you took that train trip north
with Bollinger…
in that box, all your life’s treasures,
your everything,
remember that brown plaid shirt you named Cavitt,
whose magic
seemed to work only on Saturdays
remember how you bought it at an open air flea
market for a dollar?
all your letter sweaters and sports clippings
your slide rules,
both classic and circular
lets not forget none of them had
a k scale on the slide,
who knew such things existed
your Baltimore catechisms and prayer books with the Latin Mass
all those statues of saints and the blessed virgin.
those greenish cloth scapulars with soft stitched felt backings…
your memory
and the pain of remembering
now dimmed, blunted by the decades
recall your long gone maps of the lower Danube
and the lands of the Bogomil
along with your collection of Russian icons
from that time when you lived in a tent above Dubrovnik in 1963…
why are you so gullible or is it just your carelessness
how could you ever believe greyhound bus
would ever take care of your stuff?
when you got off the train in Boston,
you diddled around,
went to a movie, Von Ryans Express
before going down to the bus station
you really thought they would have it waiting for you didn’t you.
Now it’s forty one years later…
From time to time you’ve wondered whether a certain
pock marked bar maid
might have found your box abandoned, falling apart,
somewhere in Arkansas or Tennessee
she gathered its contents, mystified, charmed,
she used to dream about what kind of boy
would put such trust in cardboard and scotch tape….
she thought to keep your box only a while,
she read about you in one of your clippings,
sent a letter to the houston chronicle sports writer jack gallagher
telling him that she had your box
but she never got a reply
finally she put it away in the back of a broom closet
of a beer joint that has two palm trees in front,
one of them now dead…
she used to wonder
why you gave up on trying to find your box
for don’t you remember
that flip topped green metal container inside,
the one with your baseball card collection
hundreds of cards
including a ‘53 Mantle and a ‘54 Furillo.
she doesn’t want a reward
just wants to meet you,
reunite you with your box
maybe hold your hand,
look deep into your blue grey eyes
now clouded with age…