Being lovers is one thing,
building a sanctuary, another.
A twig misplaced,
a crumbling cradle
unhinged by flyaway grass
and in slink the rats,
disturbing the peace,
tipping over
the cup of comfort,
spilling the sugar,
dragging in dirt and discards,
smacking wrap-around tails
to worn-out tracks
of long-gone songs,
making a mess
of the nest.