Hiding Place

My favourite hiding place is in my head, but I didn't think I'd get much of a blog out of that, especially at the end of a miserably wet Saturday. I decided instead to google images of 'unusual hiding places' in search of inspiration and this fine specimen turned up. I couldn't stop laughing. 

I don't know if it's AI generated, real but staged, or quirkily natural, and to be honest I don't care. I love it and it proved irresistible as a prompt for the latest from the imaginarium. It's all about the poem this week, a work in progress but I've managed the first two verses so far. I give you...  

Refrigerator Cat

thinks he knows  where it's at, claims to be seeking sanctuary -

asylum  if  you  like -  from the  household  of  dogs.  He's cool

with the concept of  'refugee status', sits smug in our Smeg but

only when it suits him, when he wants a snack. He goes in thin

but he comes out fat. I tell him he's just a gastronomic migrant.

He looks  shocked or offended  by that, but there's no denying

he's trying it on.  Says he's not fat, just fluffed up to keep warm,

though I know where the leftover smoked salmon went and the

chicken breast so artfully wrapped, as he claims with a neat lick

of his lips that  he only moved the liver pâté to make room to sit.

(to be continued...)

Thanks for reading, S ;-)