Open lid, and the air changes shape—
a hinge sighs like something deciding to forgive.
Inside: a crowded history of play.
A plastic truck leans against a broken crown,
both equally important once,
both slightly dusty now.
Strings from forgotten puppets
tangle with puzzle pieces that no longer agree
on what they were meant to complete.
There is a faint echo of motion here,
not sound exactly, but after-sound—
the residue of spinning wheels,
the memory of small arguments between toys
about who got left out last time.
A lid closes, but not all the way,
as if even the box refuses to pretend
everything inside is finished.
-
Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: May 21st, 2026 08:12
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship, Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: Toy Box.
Offline)
Comments2
They say it is not over until it's over but it is never over for each day brings another sun. Well done
Matthew, this is beautifully crafted. The poem turns a simple toy box into something almost sacred…full of memory, unfinished feeling, and the quiet residue of growing older. “The memory of small arguments between toys” especially got me…such a subtle but painfully real way of showing childhood still echoing inside forgotten things. And that ending lands perfectly…like even the box itself refuses closure. Powerful write, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.