Eliot rode his hobby horse

Eliot rode his hobby horse

On a Sunday

I love the guy

But really

Why is it always the cat?

I guess he loved poetic language

As do I

It can be sublime

Especially

When used in tandem

With a sense of fun.

There is a bee in the garden

I can see it from here

The question is

Does it know that I know

And if it does then

It has the nerve

To still be

Gathering its bounty

From the flower of good and evil

As if it has all the time

In the world.

The pollen sticks

To its hairy belly for dear life

And it has the look of

My old Auntie Bess

On a jam and Jerusalem jaunt

Rummaging at a jumble sale

As it bumbled along,

Butting itself

Head first into the Euphorbia,

Meandering from one to the other

Back and forth

Like a drunk on a bender

Trying to fit a key in the lock

Of the wrong door.

The old man who lives

In the basement

And wears a flat cap

Even when putting out his rubbish

Always struggles with his keys.

One time

After a pub lunch

He fumbled them down the drain.

The red-haired, freckle-faced boy

With friendly eyes

Who lived next door

With his wide-hipped mother

A single-parent

And none the worse for that

Had to climb through the kitchen window

To open the door from the inside.

It is easy to see how real burglars do it

Even in the dark.

The man was so grateful

He had tears in his eyes

And gave the boy a fiver.

The boy ran to the ice cream van

On the corner

Before his mum could stop him

Filling his boots

With a ninety-nine

Double flake and a Magnum for

Her.

A considerate sort,

He had a smile as wide

As the Thames

At high tide.

I can see it now,

Even as I sit with the cat

On my lap

Dozing

Almost as contentedly,

As the Bumble Bee

Buzzing busily in the Roses.