There used to be tears and poems and drawings in texta

and pottery offerings tossed into the tender dug hole

beneath the washing line, lower lips quivering and whispered regret.

When the second last guinea pig died one morning last month

his text message informed us all.  The absent children quipped

epitaphs by iPhone, highlighting her character flaws.

Wrapped in a used plastic bag, he put her in the wheelie bin

for collection Sunday night. Not that the children know -

it was awkward to say.  Besides, they didn't even ask.