He tried to dig wells inside of me
With one of those spoon-fork-knife
All-inclusive combos.
Silly little things, and made of plastic too!
As if my walls were made of that pudding stuff.
Waste of injury! Foolish boy!
I should be outraged at the insult,
I should cry at his naiveté,
Spit on his back’s bending,
Curse his sweat’s rewarding the work.
But I cradle him close, let him dig softly, grip softly  
Lest he break his tools
Lest he break this rhythm
I cradle him close and let concrete lap sweetly at his sweat.
And when we are this close, my fingers always dig sweetly into his back.