You tease me about poems and paranoia,
unaware that we are always on guard
with our favourite toys, prepared
to reach the thatched ladder
over the black hole.
The one we are certain
we did not dig.
When you can be fat and happy
hunched over machinery sans guilt,
then you are one rich man falling.
Gift-giving makes such a man nervous
and she has included you childlike
in her great big-hearted basket.
The polishing of pride,
and the lending of contentment
are all swallowed by her good intentions
saved for unity and motherhood.
She kick-starts the leather and merry-go-round
without knowing what she has spun.