White Box

My little white box. Inside it is quiet,

the kind of quiet you can hear your

cigarette burn in as you inhale.

From the window comes the kind of

darkness that makes the narrow, naked

treetops look like spiderweb mansions.

The white tile kitchen floor, like a shallow

rain puddle reflects the shadow of my

body as I saunter across each smooth square.

In my little white box is a mirror—

I move to it. A white waxing crescent

is what I see. Me looking back at me.