For the girl who has everything!
he says.
She looks at him, frowns,
unties the frayed festive ribbon
and peels away crinkled brown paper.
The box is old, hardly used,
an heirloom, perhaps;
inside, two silver napkin rings
a little tarnished,
nestling in blue satin.
But I don’t have everything;
I don’t have anything.
You have a warm heart, he says.
He rolls up layers of paper towels,
slots them deftly through the rings;
she opens a can of soup.
This poem was written as the result of a prompt
in the writing group I attend weekly.
The prompt was the box in the photograph below
journeyintopoetry 