It’s nearly time for your medication.

I’m drinking my seventh cup of tea

and thinking how much better you’ve been

since the start of the new regime.

That sounds like you’re sick,

or a political beast,  not merely slow

and easily distracted; the worst

combination of tortoise and hare.

If the heavens were fair

your sister wouldn’t grasp

the lion’s share of love and loom bands

you’re teaching her to manipulate.

You should be less free

with your expertise.

But today’s sky is huge and blue to bursting,

you’re not such a freak

with your hair cut short;

the end of year report opines

you’re beginning to recognise

the difference between truth and fiction.

I know you’re only kidding.