That Old Cigar Box

With the pin in its roof and the
snap of its closure the smell of

dust and dreams stumble inside.
I’ve no idea where it got to nor

the gifts it stole away. Its brittle
shape broke me while hoarding

endlessly that flavour, bold and
haunting and that’s always stayed

with me. Maybe one day I’ll find
it propped in a cupboard under

some stairs or beneath the floorboards
with the chalk, splinters and rat hairs.

The squeak of its awakening, like
a haunted door, would still me;

allow a rest from these long years
of searching.