Shore Poets
Lunch with Liam
Liam lolls against my chest
like a bag of warm sand,
amusing himself
with the most interesting spot
on the cafe's sponge painted wall.
Being a sort of secular godmother
I'm trusted to hold him
all lunch hour
the cord stretching just a little further
as Mother and son watch each other
across the table top.
I learn to eat one handed
forking mouthfuls of pasta
above his head
noticing the whorls of hair
fuzzing across his scalp
like a cat's ear or an African violet leaf.
Liam discovers that a kind of telekinesis
will just about make his arms move,
grunts with the dogged effort
of aiming his fist
at a teaspoon
his knuckles four stars
across the back of each hand.
Cat
Somedays she is there
when I arrive for work,
indignant on the doorstep;
or inside on a bed,
lifting an eyebrow
if I have to disturb her.
Like a small household god
she has offerings of food and water
left out for her.
She follows me
as I clean,
casting her fur about
like clothes someone else
will tidy,
slaloms between my legs
on the stairs
or chases my broom,
an unlooked for familiar.