Raw cicak yuk

back there, I get a cold beer

plonk on worktop, baby cicak there

I brush, in caring way, with cinnamon jar

off he/she went

the fan whirring

non-stop dog barking in the lane

Rhiannon on the phone in bedroom,

cicak chattering

the rear garden lit in the light

bamboo, banana clear

insect talk to me but no comprehension

back there,

baby cicak back again

addiction to the aroma of beer

I’m concerned that

he/she won’t climb the glass, fall in,

me ingest; it might put me off eating...

 ‘What did you have for dinner tonight?’

‘Oh, almonds, beer, a cicak, raw.’

‘How ethnic; your degree, in Anthropology?’
‘Um, part of it, yep; got an A.’

‘How disgusting; why don’t we go for dinner of GM carrot, pea,
cabbage, with a wad of force-fed goose pâté, irradiated battery chicken?’

‘How excellent; oh, imagine that, a filthy bugger, cicak and beer, yuk.’