At night the house rotated,
tipped towards dark corners of the cellar.
Stuff in there welled up,
slid among strange smells,
bumped underground walls,
while all above remained taut,
glued in place, except teddy bear pilot,
world war fighter ace,
who steered us into the early hours.
He sat firm jawed,
paw calmly clawed the joy stick.
Rode everywhere yet nowhere,
sticking cellotape to our snoring forms
to keep us from floating through lightning storms.
As dawn approached he laid down landing strips,
steam hissing from his fur clogged pores,
then carefully climbed into bed,
assuming a glassy eyed supine form.