I go where you go, but I never see light, I wrap what you hide and I cling pretty tight. I’m silent, elastic, and stitched to obey, but flash me in public and folks look away.

I sleep like a god and I grumble for snacks. I don’t do commands and I don’t call you back. If it’s Monday, I’m glaring. Don’t ask me to move- I’ll claw at your chest just to ruin your groove.

You tug on my neck to loosen my shell. You squeeze with caress, your lips form a seal. I grow as you blow, but tense as I swell- Then I bust in your face and make you squeal.

I nap on the job and still take the raise. I parent with grunts and affectionless praise. I drink like it’s sacred, I bribe with a snack- then scream D’oh! at the child I forgot to bring back.

I’m always dropping down under the table, then everyone tries to pick me up. They want me to clean up what should have been swallowed. But the more they make me lap up. . . the dirtier I feel.