Boxes

The tune was, “Pop Goes the Weasel”,

Played while cranking the Jack-in-the-Box.

Twenty years later, I screamed at a clown,

In the drive-thru at Jack-in-the-Box;

Ordering into a garbled speaker,

A Jumbo Jack in a cardboard box.

Thirty years later in an antique shop,

I found a hundred-year-old music box.

Giant brass cylinders, with organized pins,

 All stored in an oak wooden box.

A few turns of the wind-up crank,

Set in play, the best scores of Bach’s.

Now that I’m pushing seventy,

I can’t fight, I’m too old to box.

I don’t even envision a future,

Outside of a new pine box.

My only escape, I’ve recently found,

Is Franzia wine, right out of the box.