Sid on the Ceiling

Sid on the ceiling is stuck in such feeling
And not very rounded but still somehow grounded.

He said to us, “Look! Up here in this nook!”
But we couldn’t see as perfect as he: we

Poked him with a broom, saying, “You can’t assume
That there in that corner is anything for ya!

It might be a trick, for we are not thick!”
But he said, “Don’t poke! For this is no joke—hark!:

When you live up here, the world does appear
With bells on and music and you’d not refuse it!

I wish you could see. I wish… O dear me.”
And then he went quiet, and thought in his silence:

I don’t want to wish; they just think I’m mad.
But they come find me when they’re feeling sad!

But up here this high, I can change
Their structure! I pass them
Some joy, saying, “This here will sort ya!”

And then they dance off, all glee
For a week. Then it’s back to the broom
And jabbing at me!

They don’t see. They don’t! Except
What I drop from the ceiling
Or sky—from my magic pot.

And that gets them high, which then
Stops them
From poking my hind! Left safe in my spot.

*

Sid on the ceiling is stuck in such feeling
And not really meaning the mad things he’s mumbling,

“Cuz he knows it all, and he’ll never fall
Or falter on us—just sprinkle his dust.”