The Xerox

There is a Xerox
box in the corner.


The Xerox box 
lives as itself,
all of its pasts
and presents reside
there, dusty and meek
in the garage.


"paper today
for business tomorrow"
it says, and I imagine
the brown-noser it wants 
to be. Slowly, the box
and I understand.


From its home, 
we may visit.
The elements of past style
live in its corrugated bones,
a shaking featherweight.
It is somewhere on a 
Pandora scale- 
to open it would be to 
let the sea escape.
To let the polaroids,
the afros, and faded vinyl-
to let them travel.
Away from me.


I leave it there,
the Xerox box
whose life contains mine.
It wishes for corporate
promotions. But it isn't aware.
I wish for the photos
and bad haircuts
to stay away.
Buried in the belly
of the beast in my garage.