Madness is in the eye of the beholder,
said a man who lived in a toy box.
It’s accepted when a kid or much, much older.
In the interval between, it shocks.
His walls once were Lincoln Logs and Plastic Bricks.
Each toy in his box had their peculiar tricks.
He would play all day in quietude quite deep,
except for forced interludes of food and sleep.
When asked who were favorites from amongst his friends,
he said one-armed soldier and strange thing that bends.
Holidays and birthdays filled him up with joy
when he introduced to that box his new toy.
Then came dreaded school and time was regulated.
Homework was priority, play now berated.
Soon was introduced a glove and baseball bat.
His toy box was closeted; imagine that.
His room filled with baseball cards and model cars.
Walls were tacked with athletes and music stars.
He bought 45’s, "Hound Dog" and One Fine Day."
That toy box was sealed with tape and put away.
Decades passed and he had children of his own.
None of them reacted when his box was shown.
Stuff today lit up, moved and made lots of noise.
To them it was just a coffin of dead toys.
Many years went by, now he’s back in his box,
having gone through several strokes and aftershocks.
Wooly Willie’s on his shelf with Slinky and those men of tin.
Now it is acceptable for him to be a child again.