Pome

A lovely poem here from Hitler's Mustache.

The Package

First, there was the cardboard box
that was wrapped in clear tape.
I got a knife. Then there was a box wrapped
in sticky paper. Then another layer of sticky paper.
Then another layer. Then there was a layer
of clear tape. Then, another box. When I
opened this box, there was a jar wrapped
in sticky paper and more clear tape. There
were a bunch of layers of each. It was hard
work. I was starting to sweat. When I finally got
to the jar, the lid was glued shut. It took me
a while to dislodge it. The Jar was filled with glue,
but deep in the center of the glue was a small
package wrapped in clear tape. Below those
layers of clear tape, was a sort of tiny tarp
that seemed plastered to a layer of tape beneath it.
I unpeeled the tape and the tarp. I cut
through the layer beneath that.
There was a box rife with screws. It was
very screwy. I undid the screws I could undo and
got a small hacksaw for some of the others. I
was laughing a little to myself by now. Also,
I was frustrated. I had broken one of my fingernails.
Beneath the screwy box was a ball of tape
wrapped with sticky paper and a hard shell
like thing coated with a bony chocolate.
It was late by now. I chiseled the shell and fought
my was through the tape and sticky paper.
It was a loosening situation. There was much
pulling and slackening. Through it all, not
a single phone call. And that's what I think about
now. Not a single fucking phone call.