The government is keen. Her house is stolen. Cocoon of balloon drift-sinks to timed-out sand dune. Add five years, add ten, and here in her room. Five cats she saw the back of, flat caps, paper maps, upturned horseshoes. She’s publicly available, plowing on behind your calm group choices. Kept under glass, signed, crossed off, extinct as instinct, ever the fool. A young boy runs to buy a lava lamp like there weren’t already lava lamps. A bulb goes out, one of four, and nobody notices the new gloom. A stranger’s care is proof of something. The tea is warm, her hands remember what to do. She’s publicly dependent. Her lips are pursed, her legs mistaken. The tiny hammer is on her knee, they are measuring her for shoes and she is grateful, so grateful. The wind-up ballerina dances on her central podium. I close the box and she is waiting. The tea is warm, my hands remember what to do. The wind-up merchant dances on her central podium. I open the box and she knows what to do. The government is trying to clean the boxes from the room. The wind-up ballerina with her two arms pointing up. Five lads I saw the back of, flat naps, stereotypes, upturned afternoons. She’s publicly expendable, her house is turning over, spilling out good luck or bad, entirely consumed. And here in the box, there’s a switch on the box, I’m here in the box in her room.