I've been aware of penguins since I was three:
I think one may have moved in with me.
The signs are everywhere.
The smell of saltwater in the air.
There are moulted feathers on my chair
Yesterday I found a fish upon the stair.
But when I turn arouond there's no one there,
for he moves in the shadows, like Tony Soprano;
I am forever stepping in guano.
I don't know why he's come to live with me.
There are better places for him to be.
But when I've gone to bed, I can hear the tread
of his soft heels across the kitchen floor,
and the opening of the freezer door.
And I picture him there,
his head resting on a frozen shelf,
dreaming sadly of somewhere else,
thinking about the hand that life has dealt him,
and I wonder if his heart is melting.