Love Rat

He can’t help that weasel look,
I tell myself. And maybe the
ferret tattoo on his
grey neck’s the only one.
But I’ve got problems with the
skunk smell,
six face piercings:
don’t like to think where
others might be on the
runty body that’s
so good at sliding into
my kitchen,
lifting a tea bag as he
leans against my units,
sucks on a roll-up
my Fresh Aire can’t subdue.
And does he have to
purple my angel girl’s neck?
But I’ve sniffed his trail
when I see that stoaty leer,
hear his whispered glottal stops,
Fancy an hour upstairs, Ma?

Lynda O’Neill

published in South Magazine, ISSN 0959-1122