My six-year-old mechanic, you are up half the night
inventing a pipe made from jars, a skiing car
for flat icy roads and a timer-catapult
involving a palm tree, candles and rope.

You could barely stand when I once found you,
having loosened the bars from the cot
and stepped out so simply you shocked yourself.
Today I am tearful, infatuated with bad ideas,

the same song, over and over. You take charge,
up-end chairs, pull cushions under the table,
lay in chewing-gum and juice,
rip newspaper into snow on the roof.

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