It all comes out the yellow box,
it all goes right back in.
Tightness says its tidy,
they will tell me where they've been.
There's every little piece in there,
And some are growing old.
Lingering and languishing
and waiting in the fold.
The bottles and the brushes
are not all that it contains;
baked-in love of truer times
is soaked into its grain.
I barely bear the losses
and the ruins in the days.
But some is stored securely here -
I'm grateful that it stays.
