At night the house rotated,
tipped towards dark corners.
Stuff welled up,
slid among strange smells,
bumping underground walls,
while all above remained taut,
glued in place, except teddy bear pilot,
world war fighter ace,
who steered us out of dangers jaws.
He sat stiff lipped,
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 landing strips,
steam hissing from his fur clogged pores,
then carefully climbed into bed,
assuming a glassy eyed supine form.