Molded

The stack of papers,

neat for once,

demanded a box.

Something simple.

Something cheap.

This white plastic thing,

mass-produced,

straight from the bin.

The lid, a flimsy ghost

of what it should have been.

It wouldn't catch.

Just rode the edge,

a loose, ill-fitting smile.

My thumb ran over it,

the slightly oily sheen,

the sharp, almost

too-clean seam

where the mold pressed shut.

It buckled when I tried

to force it,

a low, protesting creak.

No satisfying click.

Just that weak give,

the knowledge that

it wasn't quite right.

Holding nothing securely.

Just waiting

to spill.