Old car batteries, jumper cables and a squeeze toy
lay strewn about the playpen,
saliva and battery acid intermingle there,
a jagged-toothed mobile slowly revolves overhead,
the arc-welder spits brilliantly as we mend teddy’s arm.

The walls shudder from pounding machines downstairs,
the scent of spilled hydraulic oil and grease waft in,
is dinner cooking?

Teddy’s arm is healed,
the weld a rippling scar,
we take him by the arm to the forge
and draw a bath,
climbing in we turn molten again.