Eventually someone marketed slapping wheels
plastic trinkets with bean-filled gloves attached
in the season’s colours. You could hear their
clatter as people walked, guilt free, to cheat
on partners or burgle corner shops. The head of BP
held a chrome-banded mahogany version to his face
as he spoke of another oil spill, slap-slap-slapping
his way through the dreary details. And all of us
slept well that night, cheeks pulsing with comforting heat.