I know they're under the eaves scheming

for a next move nothing left to chance. 

My torch reveals one taking the outside air at night

in a strung rocking chair,

a perfect design in its world of complexity. 

By day nothing is visible except threads

in corners, where futures are made. 

 

A sense of privilege holds me back from destroying them

allowing full rein over my discomfort.

I have built a home

they have built a home

we are therefore in a sense equal

and I am indisputably never alone.