Boxed

For my childhood,
in celebration of my existence
I received from my parents
an empty box.

From plain yellow paper, or was it blue
they roughly cut out
a cross
which they folded into a cube.

A rapidly constructed
empty box
which they fixed with sellotape
as they were rather busy
demolishing their own lives
with drink and despair.

They left it
at the bottom
of my bed.

I opened it every day
every year
in case it had been filled
maybe once
with flowers and joy
by the love fairy.

But there was no room inside
because the empty box
was full to overflowing
with neglect.