Third Birthday

Until I was three I had a pet rabbit.

For a long time

I took him everywhere with me.

He was made of felt

and stood upright

tall and thin

holding a bright orange carrot

in front

of his yellow chest.

I held him by his ears

which were dark green like his back.

And then

my mother decreed he had become

too shabby, too dirty

to be my constant companion.

A wash did not improve

his appearance too successfully.

So he became my sleeping partner

and I still loved him as much.

And then

for my third birthday

he was allowed

to come to tea.

I was sick,

too much cake,

my mother said.

Yes

I was sick

all over

my pet rabbit.

And then

he disappeared.

No one knew where.

“He’s gone,” 

they said

hippy hop.

I never saw him again.

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