Poor Fred

Poor Fred is dead
He ran across my bed
His legs a blur of skittering
wobbliness.
Poor Fred is dead
He ran across my bed
His fangs a blur of chattering
Nastiness
Poor Fred is dead
he ran across my bed
His belly a blur of shiny
blackness.
There’s no kindness left
here in my tiny room
where once I captured poor Fred’s mum
in a glass. With a piece of card,
and put her gently in the garden.
Now I sit, staring into corners,
wondering where poor Fred lived
before he took his final run across my bed
and did he leave behind
some other skittering mates
with too many legs?

Inspired by a post I read on Mumsnet this morning.