And One Unlucky Starling

It would climb from its dirt-tank and whip

after dad’s thrown oven chips –

and when it was full it would rest in the glare

of the TV like a drainpipe choked with moss

and one unlucky starling. Rare

was the sight of mum stroking it

as one of her own stockinged legs,

more often dad laid it over himself

as one of her stockinged legs –

still, it would nuzzle no one save me

and follow me to bed, my one-limbed teddy

they’d later call my tape measure

comparing its hungry length to mine

as into sleep I glided like a chip across the room.