Globe by Jennifer Nolan
Parts of my globe Have faded in the sunlight, And the U.S has a dent in it. It smells of old, dusty classrooms And cupboards. Spinning it fast, It complains grumpily- Creaking and whining. Eyes closed, Fingers brushing lightly Off the cold metal- It comes to a noisy halt at Japan. I follow the finger trail in the dust Back home.