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A Phantasy


This plump boy, simply, scared of everything
Told me he'd like to live in a cardboard box
With eye holes, ear holes, air hold.

After two years of treatment he had reached the point
Where only one fear remained: drowning.
He had nightmares of being sucked into the waves.

A hundred miles from the sea, walking
To school along a road two miles from any water,
A grain truck passed him on a tight corner,

Spilled its load over him.
The driver said he saw the grain moving
And tried, through injured, to dig down.

There were sounds too. Long bleating cries.
He thought it was a sheep he'd buried.
And the boy died.
  by John Ashbrook

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