The Box

 

They came at him like a swarm of killer bees
clubbing and pushing and stinging
the crowd run wild
they prodded and twisted his 
protesting form like malleable clay
he tried to stay anchored, but it was no use
Soon, he was in the box.
He hadn't made the box, hadn't had
any part in its construction;
It was small, rectangular,
with tiny slits for windows that barely
let in enough air to breathe.
They, satisfied, watched him as he
crouched, timid, unable to move 
or react or even wince.
For a time he struggled, 
but it became a futile waste of energy
and besides,
few cared of his fate
being locked in their own boxes.
He laughed ruefully and decided it wasn't so bad--
at least he hadn't 
been forced to make his own box
as some of the others had. 
But as a silent tear
tore down out of his eyes
he finally realized:
a box was a box.