by Niamh Twomey

Mostly I’m lonely

From nighttime to morning time.

The problem is

There’s no pets allowed

In the house

And the garden

Is half a short stride squared.

“No room to swing a cat”-

Not that I would want to,

I’d rather pour old milk

In a bowl on the floor

And watch it lap it up

And call it Bubbles.

And come home to find it

Snoozing on my bed

Like the loveliest pillow.

And leave the house

With its fur on my coat,

Reminding me

To come back soon

Because someone is waiting.