The Taunton Street Feline Detective Agency
I found some lost loose grooves
down the back of the couch
along with £4.28 in change,
a plectrum signed by Richard Clayderman
and a faded photo
of the soul I sold
at the Crossroads motel.
I decided to rally the troops
so I proceeded to toot
on my Javanese nose flute
and quick as a Flash (a-ah),
my trusty tribe of tiny lions
came roaring in to answer the call.
I said
Now listen Trixie Mitten
and you silver tabby twittens;
this house is haunted by the ghost
of the man I used to be.
I need you to go
hither and thither
and see whither you can find me.
They jumped to it
like I was holding aloft
slithers of wafer-thin chicken.
They looked in bins
and under rocks,
up in trees and
down by the docks.
They sent me regular reports of sightings
in far-flung flophouses
and run-down crack houses.
Very soon they were on my tail.
I spent time in the wilderness:
forty days in the dessert
section of Marks & Spencers;
a bank holiday weekend in Wakefield
spent forcing rhubarb,
coercing cantaloupes and
gently persuading persimmons (Sharon's Fruit).
My feline posse
finally caught up with me,
working in Pork Farms (Market Drayton).
My job there was twofold:
injecting jelly through tiny holes
like fork pricks in the lids,
then shrinking the pies
so that they could easily fit
inside the school lunchboxes
of teenage meat-eaters.
They fastened their paws and claws to my head
and set a course for the old homestead.
A bus ride and two train trips later,
they dragged my sorry backside
kicking and screaming
through the cat flap.
Trixie sat me down with a cup of tea and said
Come on Dad, have a word with yourself.
I looked me straight in the eye
and I stared right back unblinking.
You've been here all along I said.
Yes, that's just what I was thinking.
And I knew there and then,
I'd never disappear again.
B.R. 18/01/2017
down the back of the couch
along with £4.28 in change,
a plectrum signed by Richard Clayderman
and a faded photo
of the soul I sold
at the Crossroads motel.
I decided to rally the troops
so I proceeded to toot
on my Javanese nose flute
and quick as a Flash (a-ah),
my trusty tribe of tiny lions
came roaring in to answer the call.
I said
Now listen Trixie Mitten
and you silver tabby twittens;
this house is haunted by the ghost
of the man I used to be.
I need you to go
hither and thither
and see whither you can find me.
They jumped to it
like I was holding aloft
slithers of wafer-thin chicken.
They looked in bins
and under rocks,
up in trees and
down by the docks.
They sent me regular reports of sightings
in far-flung flophouses
and run-down crack houses.
Very soon they were on my tail.
I spent time in the wilderness:
forty days in the dessert
section of Marks & Spencers;
a bank holiday weekend in Wakefield
spent forcing rhubarb,
coercing cantaloupes and
gently persuading persimmons (Sharon's Fruit).
My feline posse
finally caught up with me,
working in Pork Farms (Market Drayton).
My job there was twofold:
injecting jelly through tiny holes
like fork pricks in the lids,
then shrinking the pies
so that they could easily fit
inside the school lunchboxes
of teenage meat-eaters.
They fastened their paws and claws to my head
and set a course for the old homestead.
A bus ride and two train trips later,
they dragged my sorry backside
kicking and screaming
through the cat flap.
Trixie sat me down with a cup of tea and said
Come on Dad, have a word with yourself.
I looked me straight in the eye
and I stared right back unblinking.
You've been here all along I said.
Yes, that's just what I was thinking.
And I knew there and then,
I'd never disappear again.
B.R. 18/01/2017
Trixie Mitten, head of the Taunton St FDA.
Tabitha Amanda, private investigator, looking for suspects in a shopping bag.
Toulouse, assistant detective and (catnip) tea-boy. Photos by B.R.
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