In the box it waited

In the box, it waited.

Plastic green.

An army man, faded,

a small, forgotten scene.

One arm, just gone.

Snapped clean off.

Its face, molded,

a fixed stare.

A tiny, plastic scoff

at the air.

Helmet scratched,

a sheen of age.

Dust, and something latched,

a faint chemical smell,

from a far-off stage.

Not just attic dust.

A smell of childhood.

Of small, hard trust,

and things misunderstood.

It still stands,

on its little base.

A soldier, without hands.

No battle,

just this place.