The Box

I couldn’t think with that selling blaring on.
I wanted to build a thought construction.
A shape I knew would last. A model to keep.
But the brute football, Coca-Cola, cheap talk, stale drama
Cast-plastic quick-fix trinkets
Kept breaking in.

I stood there, trying to beat it. Fighting hard.
Steadying a portion of thought while pulling
Another close for gluing—concentrating.
Then a studded vinyl-clad multi-function baby weapon
Laughing, smashed my work.
Pieces of verse

Lie about me.
Stooped, I gather them.

What do you think?