Mango crates

I can't afford them yet.
Whims and fancies
and crazy plans
made at the spur
of a moment.

Pretty things
picked off shelves
just because I want them
doesn't yet figure
in the scheme of things.

And a string of numbers

added, subtracted, divided

usually litter the back pages

of my notebooks. 

Change is counted
and funds inspected

and budgets are
pieced together carefully.

I can't afford them yet.

Whims and fancies

and carefree spontaneity.

I look around my room 

and I see its sparse. 

Abundant is the sun
shining through
the big windows.
Or the shimmering starlight
or the shivering breeze
filling the empty spaces. 

An indulgence perhaps.

A chink in the numbers. 

There is a mattress
and a desk and a lamp.  

An old rug and a steel 

cupboard wardrobe.

And my most
prized possessions
have no bookshelf either.

I got a couple of mango crates
and painted them
to keep my books.

But they don't seem to care.

They seem to be doing just fine,
like you,

in makeshift mango crates

painted with love.