Pleasure in a Box

Do you remember

boring days or journeys

we’d take an object

any object,

place it on a pedestal of grey

cells and tell it

‘You can be anything.’

We’d reveal the world

that awaited it, transformations

it would undergo to reach

its protean potential.

A book would be

a doorstop; bi-plane

chock block; a hat to shelter

under; a make-shift hammer.

The list went on and so did our

imaginations.

But the zenith of all

Our ruminations

was the humble box.

The unrivalled joy

of its reality… the solid-

ifying of thoughts to

tangible pleasures.

A carton water bomb dropped

from the upstairs window

to splatter the path below;

a match pack jewellery box,

or rattle, a bed for a doll;

The wonder of a packing case

that erased your teenage 

cool exterior, enticed

you to crawl inside, uninhibited,

to sit in pride of place

in the heart

of the kitchen floor.

I remember

and when I see

patisserie housed

in boxes, surrounded

by waves of love,

I think of you, so far away

and hope you’ve flown

your box-rocket to the moon

and reached your Zenith.