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SOPHIE

DAVE THE POET

The little box
Did nothing
Was everything
Small
For playing bingo
Sophie owned it
A survivor
Worlds hate
Was her love
Sundays at the firehouse
Revealing her jewels
Bingo chips
Colors never seen
Exotic pieces
For magical things
Each called ball
Her stories grew
A world traveler
Off at ten
Without a net
We were safe
Hawk like focus
Half a dozen cards
Placed two chips
Stood up
Fell down
Crushed me
Heart attack
Double pot won
Winnings were mine
Reviving her memories
Fixed the top
Times of need
Pieces of paper
Thought or wish
With her bobbles
Never disappointed
The little box
Did nothing
Was everything