Scribblings

Cardboard box.

In a cube-shaped suburb of Guadalajara,

On a boulevard balanced,

Between two busy roads.

We stop off at a square tabled terrace

For "raciones."

We share the Holy ritual. 

The act of breaking bread together.

We share from each other's

Plates and stories.

We seize the lunch,

As though it were our last supper.

From the heavens,

To keep "the cookies"

(Our gang of five delinquent children)

Busy,

A cardboard box

Flutters in,

With

fragrant strings of 

cherry blossoms,

On a winter cool breeze 

In June,

Intertwining Calamari and croquettes

With John Woo and Mary Poppins.

The muse of every child

Is the box,

Not the one with

A red penned graded tick 

Or cross,

Nor the confessional,

Nor the class,

Nor a lifetime in a cubicle

In front of a computer,

But the cardboard variety.

*Cajaman is born.

A complex entanglement of group dynamics,

Sieved through 

Let's pretend,

And short-legged fast zombie tag.

Since "IT" wears the box,

There is an inevitable tearful squabble

For the toy less package.

One father

Swipes the prize,

Donning it with a duck waddle,

Just to show

Even an old fool,

Can change his box.

*Caja = box in Spanish.