Painted Box by Joey Ng
(In class poem)
All the new thinking is about loss,
In empty grey matter with things unclaimed.
I see the passages from long ago.
Where papa taught us to draw our lot
In life and faith, hearts, spade, clubs, and diamonds.
Where any suit fits close, familiar,
A loose thread and a button here and there.
What can we weave together from these strands
Of memories looming above our heads
Spinning a yarn as long as time and space
For our youth and speculation permits.
On the tabletop is a blank red box,
With a hand crank on the left side against
All common sense and practicalities.
Spin the handle and what does awaken?
A doll inside with pink nose and white face,
Its skin fair and buried with painted guise,
Buried from the weight where its own spring lies,
An oasis of leisure and respite
From long days of work toil and affliction
Of a kind only seen in modern days.
No longer exhibiting genuine
Awe and respect, we are addicted
To proliferation of stimuli
With which we identify ourselves whole.
Shelves upon shelves of catalogs, archives
Of accepted moderate expressions,
Beauty dictated in blended mean form
Rendered from mass politics in a way
I cannot hope to fittingly convey.
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