Rodent's Return

If any of you were still holding to the tenuous belief that I am not proper mental, be prepared to let go of that.

Last night I decided that actually I would like the Tiny Plastic Hamster.  If it was still there in the morning I would gather it up and rehome it.  I can remember feeling this way about random lonely nameless (i.e., not a Sindy, or Patch) dolls in the Blue Shop or the Post Office.  I would take them home and give them a family and love.  Don't tell anyone that I used to leave them all night in the garden if they were naughty.

Anyway, Tiny Plastic Hamster was gone this morning.  So, assuming a grown-up face, I hoped a kind and sticky small-handed person had found him.  Walking the same way tonight, I thought well I'll just check on the ground even so.  And there he was, where I found him last night, about 25ft from the electric thing.

I don't believe in luck, or charms, or amulets, or any superstitious shite.  But I do believe in Small Plastic Hamsters.  He is staying here now.  Here is a photo.  And yes, it's fairly obvious to anyone with an eye that it's a bloody Guinea Pig.  That isn't Guinea Pig shit next to him, it's a bread crumb.  Tiny Guinea Pig is about 2cm long, hence the rubbish photo.

And here is today's poem.  You didn't think I'd forgotten, surely?

The Comfort of Strangers

Our fire escape falls a broken ringlet in window panes.

Quiet shoulders get to their day, heaped over phones and keys.
Silhouettes wander away, heads down, unknown business;
others framed, elbows candidly raised in surrender, or tedium.
Intense profiles with taut beards or chignons.  A sandwich.
Lives different and the same.  People I will never know,
daily furnishing the view, are comfort nonetheless.