Why are you scared, child?
Is it the roar of inhalation?
The endless consumption?
The little turning, creaking wheels?
The gray tail that curls and twitches?
You used to be so rough
with unyielding shouts
to thwart the noise and keep the wheels at bay.
Did you shrink while your body has grown?
Didn’t your teeth and fingernails sharpen?
The machine has entered the living room
yet you cower.
I will lead you if you need help.
I’ll scream, so you’ll regain your voice.
I’ll bite the white plastic surface.
I’ll tear it with my claws.
And the machine will crouch, fearful in the corner.
And the glue will give out.
Its pieces will hit the ground
and lay apart
while we sit on the carpet before the couch
in the falling dust of our triumph.