At A Bat

Little, black, fluttering, pipistrelle bat;
circling my ceiling like a surreal windmill sail;
your tattered, leather wings unfolded like a flashers mac
as, struggling to solve my puzzle room, you always fail
then, back behind my blinds or to some corner you retreat
to hang yourself up like a brolly by coat-hanger feet.

Now I must fetch my rubber gloves; shoe box and some old towel
for you to crawl onto and cling to with spindly, old man’s legs
or I will not get any sleep; not with your aerial prowl,
“Come on now, be a good bat; crawl on the towel”, I beg.
To think that, as a child, I used to fear movie vampires.
If Dracula is anything like you, he should retire.