They crowd together
under cream, silk and ivory ceilings,
being stroked by He, the fat cat,
as they play audience to the ticking spokes.
Some are cruel,
throwing their balled fists like wrecking-balls
caught in the flash-flood of
their anger,
as they hurl another missile
of nourishment at thin, sunken mama-bear,
determined to make her pay
for loving them too much,
and Him not enough.
Some are tender,
joeys un-ousted from the pouch,
once warm milk and honey,
now curdling - fermenting to spoiled,
though their fur still soft and supple,
as they cower in the salle de jeux,
and lag behind on their French,
much to His disappointment.
And as they grow,
there He sits,
claws digging sharply against tender flesh,
tendrils wrapped tightly around their hearts,
waiting, ready,
should they mirror anything other than His image.
