I can not walk along with you in my cardboard box,
ear to ear we can not be,
I am standing in the package of me.
You are standing in a card board box of your own,
just like mine its top is below your knee;
It is fat enough to stand comfortably.
Our feet are covered with light brown walls and
secured with silver duck tape.
Do not be alarmed, I am not cemented down.
My body is not being tormented by my box.
But I can not change direction without a jump
and that uses a lot of my energy.
So, I stand here –
looking at you in your box looking back at me in mine.
I will confess to you
this feeling that has taken over me,
A desire to feel fire.
I think I could easily burn this box with a lighter
to feel the unequalled blaze.
I could make it higher with gasoline,
But I am in the box and
I am no arcsin.
Nonetheless, I miss the quest
for good firewood.
I can not go to look
because this box holds me still,
Standing, but still.
Under this cardboard frame my toes face yours.
I can not help but think a kick could make us closer.
I imagine you helping me find firewood.
But I can not see your feet beneath your box
So I can not possibly glance to know where you have walked.
What if you don’t know where to go for good firewood?
I can only stare at your face.
I promised the others who’s boxes match mine
that I will see the red of your lips as a bullseye.
That is where you shout from;
that is where you hate from.
I wonder if you are within my shooting range.
You see, I got a free gun with my free box,
For protection, of course.
I am no murderer.
And maybe neither are you.
I can’t be certain,
because my box-match friend
said you are not to be trusted.
I would like to see for myself
a bird’s eye view of this chaos would be nice, but
I am no flyer.
Nonetheless, if a bullet decides to end you
it could not be mine.
I just stand here.
I have been told I shoot too high
And I know you shoot too low
And we would have to shoot to kill.
You are too far to strangle or beat,
Too far to even scratch my skin,
Too far to create any friction.
I see you, unmoving,
holding on to a tall, forefront stance.
So tightly – you are frozen.
It is like you have been kept in a trance
of your evil sculptor,
who must have hypnotized you
into staying very still.
I guess its true;
a hunched back will not make a good statue.
I see your commitment to your package
and I stand straighter.
So much so
there could be an invisible stretcher,
pulling my head further away from my feet
I am longer, thinner,
I am made vast.
You can’t see past me.
I make myself big, puff myself mighty –
I wish for combat sometimes.
I envision us,
many minds in battle,
maybe some will be severed.
Our bones are like sticks –
maybe we will rub ours together.
Friction will flare.
It could make us warmer, you know,
but I am no warrior.