A response to Jane's response to my response to her response to...
The box on the doorstep is rather small.
The label says it holds an elephant.
It’s probably a toy, perhaps inflatable
or covered in ersatz acrylic fur.
I brace myself for bitter disappointment.
But I don’t touch the box. I stare at it.
Could it contain a living pachyderm?
wishing it might, hoping it won’t, believing
that for as long as I remain unsure
I will have a potential elephant,
taken for granted, hypothetical,
my faith will save it, like applause for fairies,
like the imagined cat of every colour
preserved forever in a lidless box,
permanent, precious possibility.
.
Last edited by Ann Drysdale; 01-27-2021 at 11:04 AM.
Reason: typo. I swapped a latespotted "it" for the "at" it was meant to be.
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