Self portrait of the poet as his djungelskog

No formal diagnosis though we’re pretty sure. 

Evident from age 18 months. Machine wash

40°C max, high function. Wash-tested but sensitive.

Embroidered eyes for rigorous contact.

Do not bleach. Do not tumble dry. Do not iron.

Do not dry clean. Air-dry away from indirect sun,

this soft boy dislikes ultraviolet rays. Take care

he doesn’t float away, as he may be lifted easily

by parakeets or day-flying moths, even

flopped and scooped upon a weft of air

by a single audacious current, a chocolate sponge

possessed by a poltergeist. Post-daybed sessions

lint-roll loose domestic shorthairs from his pelt,

let the cat make biscuits on his belly if it will.

Better the boulangerie of a feline than the plaything

of a sapien. Some have walloped him, left him

crumpled, bent-double by the sofa and continued

with their games. Others flexed a fleeting interest

before culling him like an opium farm,

a tall poppy. It’s an angular world

for an amorphous boy, a hard sell for a floofy

starburst to stay softer than his box. Big amygdala

for extended apprehension. Big belly full of secrets.

Supple boy to hug, again and again.