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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Gone Fishing” Down in the Dirt, v173 (the July 2020 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Outside the Box the Down in the Dirt May-Aug. 2020 issues collection book		get the 422 page May-Aug. 2020 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Box

Jason Hyde

She sits in the metal box, it carries her down the road.
Surrounding her in the ocean of asphalt are other boxes, all sizes and shapes.
She hears the meaningless babble from the speaker, hears it but hears nothing.
The sun is painful and offensive to her eyes.
Her back screams at her, her mind is dull.
And still she travels.

The boxes multiply, flanking her every escape.
She hates them, a guttural hate from every atom.
But between tick of a second, she loves them.
Brief moments, so small they are more memories than feelings.
Every delay, every moment she is not there is a blessing.
A beautiful respite, trading one hell for another.
She travels still.

One day, she will be free from the box.
Free from the putrid ocean of concrete and fumes.
Emancipated from her shackles of drudgery, the low rewards and the high expectations.
The thought and the dream keep her foot down and the metal coffin moving.
Traveling still.

But her hair is brittle and silver, her skin weathered bark, and her bones empty and noisy.
And the wants and the needs of the bills and the children grow louder everyday.
Will she be free tomorrow? Next month? When?
She wants nothing more than to stop, just stop in for a day and never have the box gobble her again.

The world, the people, the very air and act of being alive is squeezing her.
Sitting on her chest, its hand over her mouth.
She wants to scream for help, but knows no one would hear, and the fact tires her.
Makes her tired and complacent. Complacent and drawn to the box.

Tomorrow she will escape. The box will no longer be needed.
Nor the paper that worships dead men, the imaginary website with numbers telling her her worth.
She will be free, her children full and joyous.
Far far away from the hated sea of gray, toward the sea of blue and salt and a sun that doesn’t hate her.

Or next week. Maybe next month.

She travels on.

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