Whose boxes these are I think I know.
My house is in the suburbs though;
My husband will not see me stopping here
To watch the boxes fill up with crap.
My little plant must think it queer
To stay without a sane person to water him near
Between the park and busy road
The forgetfulest woman of the year.
He gives his saucer rocks a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of the puppy’s leg and furry shake.
The boxes are many, tan and deep,
But I have a mannie pettie to keep,
And miles of boxes to go before I sleep,
And miles of boxes to go before I sleep.
— by Allison AABA Garwood
(Inspired by Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost)