Alien Fist

The three-year old’s hand is an enormous fist,
rings of alien lights wink on its width.
He slams the fist into the floor.
The lights are menacing, like a crazy revolving door.
The fist transforms into a living thing that speaks,
“I will blast your arms into pieces,
I will blast your toes and then your feet.”
I say, “you’ve blasted my arms thrice already.
If you blast them now the cake won’t be ready.”
The thing says, “then I will wait,”
“I will blast the wall till you bake the cake.”
Minutes later the thing is back.
It is crying and looks very sad.
“You are not letting me blast you,” it says,
“You are always making me wait.”
I say, “well, the cake is in the oven,
you can blast me from here till heaven.”
The thing lights up, says, “but you have to run.”
Then the chase begins, around the house, in fun.