Flipping through the pages of a manual,
That stretches on until obscene,
Such knowledge careening out in scroll,
At least the page is tagged and unfolds with so many keys.
In rewiring this and that I found:
The heaps of raw complexity,
But peaking with my eyes half closed,
I'll find my fickle balance on this mass of ingenuity,
I'll spot the beast of cogs and know to turn!

The light is intent on trickling through,
Despite the call to night from within,
The landing lights lie lazily from the cabinets to the carpet,
And the darkness banished with the slightest yawn.

Fake cash lies chaotically on the joyous cloth,
Colour and money splayed on the table,
A little card here and some metal figures there,
All is awash in laughter and cheering.

The bruised and battered sit as friends,
For friends they are,
Deep friends,
True friends.

And friends they’ll stay,
For salt and light love to sit and be,
Good friends with them,
For they were made beautifully.