Un petit cadeaux
The source of name
For that day
that follows
Unorthodox
Christmas days.

A box
A pretty word
Short and crisp
Unloved by ears
Deceptive in its sound
Imprisoning in its stealth
With gilded chains
That lock
And cut the air
That stops the breath
Preventing growth
Hors d’oeuvre to
Selfish nibble
That lets us know ourselves
Until we disappear and
Let others claim
Posthumous fame
In our name

So they may seem
Uncornered in their view
A blame passed on
To broad yet drooping shoulders
Set firm in aspic
That has no future
And possibly no past
More emperor’s clothes
Dry cleaned to give them shape
Yet still no form to introduce to hangar coats

Hung in colour code
By length as well
So that the box may be machined
To size that fits
Us all
If we don’t mind a popping seam
Half mast legs or armpit waist
Trés chic, they all proclaim
(All children banned to silent room)
And so
We can,
With knowing sigh,
Get lost amongst the ornate carving on
The well shaped box
Disguising precious gift within.