The trunk sitting in the corner of my room,

Which I watch abduct my drifting children and time,

I never see when it steals away my courage,

Saved penny by penny by nickel by dime.

Built up only to clatter and shatter in the womb.

That brief courage which I gave up to the iron sky,

Letting the thunderclouds instill soaking doubt,

And the hail smash it into a sweet lullaby,

Like the sirens calling sailors to die.

Wishes devoured, only bones spat back out.

What I become depends on my first becoming the person

Who will keep a fire lit for those frequent slippery days.

And you are the person who throws ice over that blaze

Because your own went out when you didn't try.

It is too late. The trunk is burnt and my courage is dry.