Bird house

House stirs at the sound of mewing alarm clocks.
Two cats circle, look upwards - winking, tails flicking,
calling for milk with a side of feathers.
From nested bed I hear sounds of morning.

Mother chirrups quietly waiting for the click
of the kettle, the billowing steam.
Clangs of teaspoons against the steeping teapot,
shaking of cereal boxes and the slurping of poured milk.

Father wants toast, waits impatiently
with buttered knife for it to rear its dark crust with a phut.
Victory whistles, shrill, haphazard – bird tourettes.
Unable to sit still he’ll soar out in pursuit of shiny things – hobbies.
Later perhaps some selfish mealworm snacks.

Brother will not surface.
He only talks in slammed doors, mating calls –
Liquid diet, up all night
Beady eye trained on a sparrow landing lightly,
lovely lust interest, bouncing out of sight.

Mother’s left in her world of lonely routine.
Tail feathers sweep the floor as she
nudges at cushions. Fluttering out she’ll search for
necessary nest things to clear the domestic debts.
Dirty breakfast things left smelling fresh
soaking in warm foam.

A house so familiar, too small.
Sharp pecks ruffle feathers behind closed doors.
Outgrown your ways,
you’re weird, think me snobbish.
Big bird, small nest but
that world out there has no address
like this. Blink back the tears,
we’ve got different visions -
all a little older.
Just strangers in the day,
rubbing at each other.

Bed web

Me, you and the cat tangled in bed -
arms, legs, heads.
I’m the centre of your world, warm core
important, content surrounded
by the slow whistle of you breathing.
Someone’s drilling in your dreams but it’s
just Ferdie purring and the tick tock
of your new watch.
The cat moves, gets too hot.
Now it’s just me and you
but I might need the loo.

Loaf

Forty years worth of crust
and the mould’s setting in
green.

I’m green with sick
when you breathe
your winey breath at me.
Say I’m nasty, fat arsed,
a waste of space.
That wasn’t the case when I lifted you
after too many pills.
They pumped your stomach, you’re new
and I’m greying
as I tell the kids
you didn’t want to live.

Well I do, well I did
till your mould set in.
I’ve sliced myself too thin
handed pieces around.
Your feet are on the ground now.

Now all that’s left of me, my loaf
is crumbs. Feed me to the birds.

Look, I am Marmite

That’s right.
Brand new Marmite.
I don’t expire ‘till next year honey
so I’m running this show now.

You’re looking a bit whiffy, bit sticky
I’d offer you a clean lid---
Oh hello!
Looks like I’m needed…

Well well
Oh my
She knows how to use a knife.
Those hungry plunges make me
ooze.
She gave me a wipe.

Love me
not you.
Same time tomorrow?