I Write Bad Poetry

[center][b]A Gift Wrapped in Brown Paper on My Front Stoop[/b][/center]

Of course I know it came from you
Although I did not see you there
Or know how the gift that came from you
Dew dampened, reached my bottom stair

Did you come ducking through the hedge
Knocking off your cap
Drop the box on the step
And casually whistle away?

Was it a stern delivery
That required the proper dignity
And so with measured step
You left it there and marched away?

Did a songbird speak to you
From my garden’s space
Excite your heart
Redden your face?

I know the gift would be
A treasure beyond value
The horn of the final unicorn
A new born star, a tear

I balk to open it, though
Until I see
Exactly how
You gave it to me