those imagined what-ifs
the safe-perfect-nevers
I keep in my heart in a closed-door-box with no
key and no hinges
desiccated and shriveled
but every so often I'll let in the sun
just enough hope to keep them alive
forever those pretty-perhapses
will stay in their box
but it is they who hold me prisoner
their wrinkled-bone-fingers
twined round my throat
reminding me always everything and forever
are the stuff of fairy tales
and if this is a story
it's not one of those