Waiting for Toast

I talk to my Staffie,
who is just lying there waiting,
waiting, looking at me with the whites of his eyes,
waiting for toast.

I tell him things are going to plan with the house,
walls being painted,
cupboards being fixed,
but the mould’s still there.
We keep the windows open.

I tell him someone made a fool  of someone else,
behind their back,
two families disagreeing,
I still don’t know which one to believe.

I tell him my head is a string bag,
that is full to the top,
then it bursts.
I pick it all up and have to put it back in.

My bag is full again,

I tell him my life is like a leaf from a tree,
falling from the branches,
starting again when I feel alive.

Irene Drummond (14)