I was sure it was a head in the box. When I picked it up, it gave a sort of solid and liquid tumble. My wife was sure it was a box of money, and that I had imagined the liquid part. We were lost in thick fog and we almost hit the box with our van. It was about ten-by-ten inches and sealed tightly with tape. We couldn’t help but stop and pick it up. Wouldn’t you? But we didn’t open it. Something held us back. We just drove off. My wife always said we would have been rich.
Robert Allen lives with his family in Oakland, California, where he writes poems and coaches poets in their craft. www.robertallenpoet.com Twitter: @RobertAllenPoet