What is it with Squirrels?

 

What is it with squirrels?

Such endearing little creatures
With their fluffy tails
Twitching noses and
Their prowess amongst the trees
Flying from branch to branch.

How could you not love a baby squirrel?
Little miniature flying thing
Chasing along fences and round tree trunks
Shrieking with baby squirrel noises
As it perfects the art of balance.

Don’t you admire their endeavour?
Always first at the bird table
Great mouthful of fruit and nuts
Seeing off the pigeons
Ignoring the patient blackbird.

And aren’t they resourceful?
Stocking up for the long winter
Burying their food in potted geraniums
Busy little paws
Digging up the soil.

Full of admiration
I watched one plucky squirrel
Scuttle up the drain pipe
Scamper over the kitchen roof
And take a piss.

What is it with squirrels?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Holding on

God, I hate this bloody bus
Caterpillering me down the bleedin’ aisle
Like a bucking bronco.

Miserable being out so late.
Windows all misted up
People shouting on their walkie talkies

Like they think we want to hear
What they had for their dinners,
What they saw at the pictures.

I don’t belong here no more.
Know what them foreigners feel like
With their different skin.

Theirs is black, mines all wrinkled.
Same difference, I’m not bothered.
We all end up the same.

Like my dear Wilf
Stuck in that bone factory.
A home, they call it.

Two buses to get there.
Freedom pass no good for him
Now, poor sod.

Leap Year 1916

One small leap
Of faith in this year
Made for proposals.
She went over the top
And he retreated
Leaving her

Pregnant and unmarried
A casualty of war
Passionate leave
All spent and he
Forgetting her
Closed the door

On that extra day
Which pained her more
than all previous
leave takings.
Four years too long
to ask him again.

Socks

We were a perfect match.
Two purple spotted socks.
No hiding in the washing machine
Or at the back of the drawer.
No false pairings.

We were never apart.
You were left and I was always right.
Bought on a whim we
Stood out amongst the greys and browns.
Two of a kind.

We were inseparable.
Went everywhere together.
Never let each other down.
Until the moth attack.
Now I am left.

John

John, not his real name,
Arrives on an old bicycle
He smells

He is a raconteur
Has lived life
He drinks

Hates his hostel
Despairs of his social worker
He rages

Benefits stopped again
Mates taking advantage
He rants

He wasn’t born to fail
This wasn’t the plan
He hurts.

Carrying his food away
On the handle bars
He waves.

(published in Have You Ever Seen a Cow Eat Eggs?)

image © Salvatore Rubbino