adventures in dysthymia

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Sweep Me Up

Sweep me up. I'm ready to go
in your box, be stored away.
My heart's been carried around too long,
been in too many pockets. Sweep me

into your grandfather's cigar
box, the one you've kept for odds
and ends and it's familiar smell,
faded as the memories

you placed there. I will be among them;
just lift the lid, now and again.

Stephen Brooke ©2011