Two black buttons, eagerly
looking up at the biscuit tin.
Wool pulled over the still frame,
a smudge of leather at the tip.
(Is he going to just stand there?)
Over thirty miners in white suits,
hammering away at fleshy caverns.
They remain silent as they toil,
it’s the cavern that does the singing.
(What did he do to my favourite stick?)
Solid ink encased in damp cloth,
imprinting mud upon the marble.
A carrier of the rain, a little black
wind that decorates with dirt.
(Would it help if I rolled over?)
An actor at heart, her feigning of
innocence deserving of an award.
She looks up, head at an angle,
a face full of sympathetic mysteries.
(Silly pet, still doesn’t know how to fetch)