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.


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