The Fibber

He told me how
he lay awake at night to catch
shooting stars on his tongue,
and washed by waiting
till it rained.

How
once he’d taught a hen
to tell the truth,
then faked the eggs
that it produced.

He lost me
when he claimed
a screwdriver
made its kids work
at weekends.

Then he walked off,
pretending the tail between his legs
wasn’t his.