Your Square

 

Turning over in your hands,

inspecting each side,

tracing a finger along the edges,

feeling the weight as you lift it,

the smoothness of the surface,

the roughness of the corners,

your square.

 

A square perhaps,

empty for now,

to be filled with the

suspense of not knowing

what will eventually reside

inside.

The anticipation of storage.

 

The materials,

velveted, tufted,

satiny, silky, all present

in the square, which you

still turn over in your mind,

re-examining the memories

of your examination.

 

This cube,

or box,

could have any number of

dreams or desires,

neatly packed away and placed

on a shelf in some other

square you call home.

 

On a block,

on a grid,

all squared away in multiple

squares, squirrelled away,

in neat stacks of squares,

which had been turned and

inspected by the hands of so many.

 

Tucked away,

is the square,

safe from other squares,

who squarely disagree with

what is in your square,

but it’s your square and what’s

in there was done so with care.