We sleep in jam jars
on the top shelf in the scullery.
There are a lot of us,
and besides, it’s the warmest room.
I squint through glass
at Grandpa’s rainbow head,
but not at Granny’s prunes,
that sit like slugs laughing
on the yellow saucer on the sill.
They keep me regular, she says,
like clockwork. But I know that —
she owns one big, one
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