Standing Concentric rows of vehicles enwrap the house we once called home. The tiny house still standing tall it will not fall despite cracks in cinderblock feet. It hurts our hearts to see the green constantly swept neath blacktop sheen. We should stand too, against the creep, but our feet are not so tough. Boxes All smiles and waves, shadow and shades, he drives through rooms of my humble home. His vehicle? A cardboard box. He is the one. Amused by his strange intrusion, attempt to catch and question him. He slips through floors, races on walls, splits and appears on ceilings. He stops, but once, and waits. Ask him to teach me to drive a box between dimensions. His straight lipped smile disheartens me. "I can't. Not until you see that there is no box." He speeds away, still haunting the halls of the box that holds me home.
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