Fifteen Years From Box to Box

When I was just past the age of stumbling my forehead into doorknobs,
I went to an aunt's house whose bitch had given birth to puppies,
Who now squirmed and tumbled over each other,
In a box lined with an old blanket that smelled of dust and attic cardboard.

How unlike us, unaware of where they will be in fifteen years,
Old and fraying,
Like the blanket in their ersatz womb,
Or the auntie in her floral-papered room,
Busy with that moment and an overeager nephew,
Close by the box of bundling life,
Unaware of where he will be in fifteen years.