i. Four walls no, not four, six
A house, not a home though they call it
A Home, a place for those like us: the lost little lonely ones,
Forgotten because the blood in our veins
Does not run backwards or forwards or
To anyone at all and our hearts
Beat without echoes.
We are each
One in seven billion.
ii. The mouse is often
Quiet and cautious and unseen until
A shock, like electricity, sends them
Jumping and jolting, shining eyes round
And giant's bodies quivering as the mouse,
Unaware, runs from the intrusion upon
Its silent, hidden world.
I am a mouse.
iii. There is a girl I like to see,
Who reminds me of an olden-time photograph:
Monochrome and melancholy, as though
She is from the times before colour, of
Tip-your-hat and Good Manners and
Sorrowful wives in plain, pretty dresses,
when people did not smile for photographs,
And men went off to war.
iv. When visitors come fingers-crossed-fathers
And maybe-mothers sometimes they will