Poetry Studio



I sit on the shelf

waiting my turn

listening to the murmur of voices

shuffling of papers

safe-keeping my treasures

a sandwich

peanut butter perhaps (with jelly)

carrot sticks

a banana or pear

a sweet treat

until I'm scooped up by my handle

rushed to a table

and, with the flip of a clasp,

smiled at.

In truth, I've been dropped

stepped on


Any old sack can carry a treasure

but I am

lunch box.


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