A man on all fours gives a piggy-back ride to his smaller self. Big Mickey Mouse-gloves
make up the embrace of Father. The four-poster bed where a color-tabbed book and
painter’s palette lie; the adjoining twin bed where a mash of flesh vaguely copulates.
The dinner dishes slide off the table, while the table is swallowed by the earth. So many
cross-bows and hanging dead game – so little of it will be cooked and eaten. Where
have all the women gone? The enormous, blue-coated man slumps his shoulders, folds
his chained hands. He will allow the Lilliputians to force him to read, though his gaze
strays from the page. The little man at his back gazing watchfully into the obscure
distance. The bones are shoved into the wheelbarrow, as dusk falls in ominous reds.
Who will come through the blackened doorway? What makes them halt, mid-lunge? All
the tiny flags of personal country he grips determinedly in his fists, his legs spread and
roped onto planks. Neither he nor his paint cans are going anywhere. The little yellow
flame coldly bursts in the distance.