In the Box

Down the dirty, crowded streets,
Amongst the jabber and noise,
Where complaints filled the air
In a screen of smog of angry words,
And time raced by without a glance,
Walked a girl of tan complexion.
She turned her head at the crowds,
Of similitude and gray and black.
Then she touched the little box
In her pocket and smiled.

Small as a plum, silver as the moon,
Light as a feather, painted like Picasso,
Empty as air, yet full of treasure
Was the little box in her pocket.

Inside was where she had placed
Her hopes and her dreams,
Her aspirations and joys,
Her loves and her fun,
Each put in carefully and neatly.

Often, she would open the box
To take a peek inside at her jewels.
She would try one on, then another
Until she could brighten the bleak
Uninspired pedestrians around her.
Then carefully, she would hide them
Back in her box, back in her pocket,
And as other smiled, she would beam.