Patty Brown
2 min readApr 1, 2021


before long

we will live in boxes from the store

we will grab scissors from a drawer

and cut a window and a door

it started with no trim at the top off a wall

blank white walls

that’s all

and chimneys became metal boxes

with no flue standing tall

no brick upon brick

or stone upon stone

and doors

became light as a feather

trembling all over

in the menacing of changing weather

and there were never

let me restate

a quintessential normal to never

overhead lights

to read about houses

that lit up at night

i guess darkness begets darkness

so we have forgotten about light

until generations never know it

it is forgotten in the rows and rows

of boxes they call home

lined and stacked

no nooks or crannies

just a light skin

on cheap bones

and we are expected to call it a home

the cost to high

for a window

to open over a garden

true divided light

to live where light reflects

from the wooden corners

it does not fall flat

but illuminates

the moments of our lives

christmas lights twinkling

the moon falling

and all that we love

the sound of the wooden door

that creaks when it is opened

and in its heavy shut


i am home

the footsteps on wood floors

the familiar music

of i am not alone

why do instead they build boxes

better suited for the dead

i guess no music in their heads

just the counting of gold

in twenty seven rooms

sitting alone

in their cold massive tombs

as boxes are now sold

on prime

two day delivery

becomes home

and we will call it progress

just like alone

— patty




Patty Brown

If life steers you into a dead end road, and you are trying to find your way, skip the GPS, take the road with no traffic. Founder studiO, early morning poet.