I Mish Moshing,
so out of breath from the swirl,
the fevered bounce
against another human bein’
that I would not get my words
out properly, as I say with engine stoked
memories forcing their hand,
I Mish Moshing,
the body the tool and the elbow
tucked in but still wary of
the natural enemy
to use force when
no one’s listening, the sly dig
as the ritual reaches
a crescendo of colour
and passing out sweat, flung
over and happily drenched,
the final bounce is the one that stays with you
and it knocks the stuffing
like a torn apart stripped Tigger,
as I say, breathless at the thought,
I Mish Moshing.
Ian D. Hall 2017