Boxes

My room is a study in Cubism. Every where are squares and rectangles hidden away under my table, stacked in random, teetering piles, or just standing as random monoliths in what should be a clear walkway. Each box proudly proclaims its function in a former life. Logos of black, red and blue scream out Budweiser, Dole and 'Fragile, This Side Up.' Upon closer observation one can see the recent, hastily scrawled indications of what might be in each box now. In the furthest corner of the room from the door is an anomaly from the three-sided corner. Crammed together on the table is my computer. All of the components are randomly placed as if they were desperately fleeing the advance of their six-sided nemesis. The other major feature of the room is my queen-sized bed covered with the crouching panther blanket purchased in Korea. Sandwiched between the bed and the table is a folding chair for the computer operator. Only with the lights on and the computer glaring and blurring my peripheral vision can I forget the ever-present boxes. I am glad they don't have eyes.

William Shaw