Cheek pressed to the rug

lying on the living room floor,

my boy is sweaty in blue shorts –

a future Christopher Robin though,

for now, still boasting a good organ belly

(as the doctor said) and the tasty

fingers of newbies here on earth,

still plump and sweet and sticky

and not yet at all smoky.
Choo chooo he whispers,

pushing and pulling the train

on its wooden track,

over and over,

around and back,

clackety clack

clackety clack.
His eyes are glazed to a horizon

not of earth or trees or grass

but of the near-sighted underbelly

of the sofa and its startling accumulation

of sycophantic dust bunnies

because to go outside is not safe,

the air deemed by the government

unhealthy for sensitive groups,

like children, or the elderly, or

those with weak hearts.
Choo chooo he whispers,

pushing and pulling the train

on its wooden track,

over and over,

around and back,

clackety clack

clackety clack.
Every night on the news,

forest fires eat the map towards us,

like so many roaring and snapping dragons

and no prayer of a Saint George. No prayer,

even, of rain. No prayer except the words

that come from our mouths and curl like

tendrils of smoke along the ground. 
Choo chooo he whispers,

pushing and pulling the train

on its wooden track,

over and over,

around and back,

clackety clack

clackety clack.
So there, across our only living room,

next to the green armchair

(the one that could be a pine tree

if I squint hard enough),

there the air purifier sits

and hums its lullaby

to which we all keep falling asleep

while ash falls outside

like black summer snow.
Choo chooo he whispers,

pushing and pulling the train

on its wooden track,

over and over,

around and back,

clackety clack

clackety clack.