The box

The beggar hands me a box,

a gift, small and compact,

no wrapping or bow. He

pushes it into my hand,

fearing I will refuse it, and

then walks away, disappearing

into the sidewalk, crowded.

I look for him but he was gone,

truly, as if he had never been

there. The box is smudged,

as if it had been held a long time

by dirty hands, I don’t know

whether the beggar’s or my own.

I open the box.

Photograph by Pennie Gibson via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.