At night on my
four unequally knackered
circular
legs I loop up the side
of a goodman’s
house and paste my suckers
on a cold glasspane.
If a burglar comes,
a picker of
goods with glassgouging tool
to grind a
furrow before fitting a hole
by the windowlatch,
I skedaddle and lurch
like a gluey polyp
to wherever he puts
the incisive spike,
which then skids or tucks
its bite into me
and never can make
illicit entry
to irk the inmate.
Then until dawn
the thankful dwelling
spectacles through
my bandy spools,
keeping a lookout
until the skycreepers,
the day’s first rays,
redden the roadways.
Then I crook a knee,
or one might call it
an eyesocket’s edge,
one or all four,
and nip to the kerb
for folk to ignore.
And I deem my work
successfully done.
