Sofi stumbles over, Mr. Lincoln in tow--
dented, matte, oxidized-- shouts,
“eins, zwei, drei…”

on point, fist clenched,
Sofi dispenses Mr. Lincoln down the ramp to whip
around and around and around

he whips, churns, in circular fashion
each round distinctively unique
yet shorter than the last until –

“Sofi komm!”