A poem for Stewie Bear

We were chatting last night about the reality of Stew buns time outside on the streets. I'd never really given the practicalities of how he survived much thought, but when we thought about it, it must have been awful for him
As always, these things are best put into verse


Staring at shoes

I just can’t see you outside
Loitering around the take-away
Waiting for scraps of food
That you really shouldn’t eat.

I can’t see you hopping around amongst
The frightening march of rush hour
With cars screeching, horns blaring and
The drowning clatter of well heeled feet.

I can't see you licking water from a puddle,
Staring up into the legs of people
Who can't know why you are there
Amongst them, so they'll just march by
With their confused glares and stares.

I can't see you scouring the street-scape
For a safe place to hide, camping down with hobos
In a box that once held toilet rolls,
And then held your precious life.

But I can see you hopping out in the dawn sun
Before the city wakes up,
Searching for some tasty greens
In this endless cosmopolitan muck.

I can see you craving company and
Taking whatever you can, the squirrels
In the park, the early morning rats,
The sleeping tramps, the mad old man.

I can see you snuggling up to these strangers,
Unconscious beings, who have not the sense
To harm you or to even know you're there,
But they don't move, or flinch, or have a reason to care.

I can see you looking up with hope
To the very eyes of the people who threw you here
I can see that you wouldn't know why
Just how unlikely it was that you'd survive.

But survive you did,
Emerging daily from your cardboard lid,
Puddles and pools of dangerous food
Your sustenance, inept and crude.

Your resourcefulness saved your precious life,
And you were scooped up by a loving wife
And mother, who knew not what to do with you,
But knew it was wrong that you were staring at shoes.

And so you're here, all these months later,
Living, and showing us how you are greater
Than us, really, as you could never give to your own kind
The life that someone else designed
For you, the scummiest little rabbit, Stew.

Made my cry Lets hope he can't remember those days

Thats really lovely Jay, its easy to forget where he he came from.

Its a miracle it really is.