Despite His Good Ole Boy Ways You Just Can’t Trust Him

by ELIZABETH P. BUTTIMER

Whatever you do, don't open the box.
That box could hold a bombshell
if you knew the man, like I do.
You would know it could be
anything, from rattlesnakes
to pixie-dust.

One thing for sure,
it isn't what he said it is.
It could be anything from chicken
feathers to ticking clocks
to battery acid or roller skates.
Maybe a pig's carcass,
albeit a small one, a baby
pig that died of natural causes
or maybe a leprechaun.

He could put a cuckoo clock
in there for all I know, fishing worms,
statues of Napoleon, or animal refuse,
really, you should be pleased
if it's just fertilizer, at least your garden
would welcome a heavy boxful.
Come harvest time,
you would see the benefit.

Boomerang or bowling ball,
cannon or Klondike bars,
pop goes the weasel or the weasel
himself. I would not open the box.
I would not even peep inside
or shake it to see if it rattles.
No, I would not open the box.
It isn't what he says it is.