Mini-humans converge
drawn but not defeated by routine.
So much colour,
movement,
noise -
so much future in one place
cannot be discreet.

Suddenly
I understand.
Quarts trapped in pint-pots!
Spirits simply too big
to fit still-growing bodies.
So much lifeforce
escaping -
shouting,
rough-and-tumble,
temper tantrums -
excess leaking from
unfinished containers.

Later, on the tram
I find grown-ups existing quietly -
spirits safely tidied away,
folded neatly.
Starched and ironed?
Disassembled,
flat packed,
to take up less space?

I am a coiled spring.
A jack-in-the-box, waiting

I was never any good
at laundry
or woodwork.