My brain has compartments where I keep stuff.
Like boxes set aside for people, dreams and tears.
Some boxes are locked to guard the contents
— from secret intrusion, bold escape
or curiosity — I don’t know which.
Some people dear to me — past and present
— have their boxes filled with fond memories.
In my everyday world I don’t want to
trip over stuff locked in those boxes.
I have before and that’s why I have these