I could build a fort

out of the boxes

stacked up,

almost threatening me with insecurity

and false hope, a twin assault

on my nerves as I lead up

to the big day.

Fort anxiety, Fort Pride comes before a fall,

Fort…possibility, Fort…no, Garrison of optimism,

I didn’t sign up to the French Foreign Legion

or to be the bag man at Custer’s last stand,

this Norman tower I build from boxes

filled with the death of trees, Pulp Fiction,

is today the stronghold in which I

shoot arrows from and fill the moat

with burning oil,

just to earn my keep.

Ian D. Hall 2018