I have borrowed Larkin’s toads

by Kerry Hammerton

made them my own, ensured
all warts are in their proper place.
My toads don’t race around
in unsuitable convertibles or
dull their palates with rich food.
My toads glare balefully, fat
bodies squatting in my bed,
on top of my alarm clock,
they ribbit and croak at me
from the dashboard of my car,
lie on top of the partition
in my office, they have killed
the poor mouse attached
to my keyboard, they are in
my bath, like to splash in my
tea, trip me up, hide in my shoes,
hop out of the fridge when I open
the door. Sometimes I find them
nestled in my underwear drawer.
I want to give them back,
one day I may vomit one up.


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