He walks home from the day of grind
the livelihood of working out wrinkles
and wrinkling the status quo.
He skips up the steps, not noticing the flowers
but squinting up at the sky, knowing clouds that roll
are always rain-soaked and ready to wring out
He unlocks the door, taking care to press in the key
instead of forcing the lock
a mechanism not unlike his own heart.
He closes the door, and unwears the day like a scarf
unwinding from his neck
carefully flung to the floor
of his humbling abode.
He unzips the catastrophe
and unscrews the smile
He unshelves the book on the mantle of his mind
And turns to the little case by his bed.
The silky lacquered box
no larger than a hand
No smaller than a bookmark
He makes himself comfortable on the bed
and strokes the head of the box
a new expression working its way across his features
like a dawning sun
his eyes wonder open
the dust motes glitter in his radiance
And he opens the box.