king rat

A Poem by a bad habit

highlight the black to read

the rock walls of the basement stink with mold,
tiny passageways of the space between the stones
filled of snakes and beetles, your best friends.
the rotting coyote is nestled in a home of
beer cans and twinkie wrappers, cold and
utterly forgiving.
maggots squirm quietly over the fur, and
you, the rat, are watching with your
hungry eyes and hungry face and hungry soul.
dry leaves and colored pencils are scattered
on the concrete, and you see the circles that
your tiny ecosystem moves in.
the snakes are writhing like the coyote’s innards
come to life with new malice and cunning,
the beetles crawling over and inside of your fur and skin.
unrestrained strings of drool drip down
your chin and dust rises within it,
and you’re home. finally home

- deadmeat