Why is there a child in a box?
He could be nine, probably younger
He is wearing a bright red shirt
And black shorts, the tarpy smooth kind
He is haphazardly folded together,
Box bending and straining to fit him in,
Bulging on the side to fit his contorted frame

Why is there a child in a box?
His left arm is withered, small and thin
Flung up the side of the box
As if trying to wave for attention
His head is twisted to the side
It does not look at all comfortable
But I guess he is beyond caring

Why is there a child in a box?
Body decomposing, cramped in cardboard
With his little hand up in the air
And knees bent, feet tucked close
He is so young and so, so tiny
Who would put a child in a box?
And why, God, is he dead?