The Rat

A young man wrote a poem about a rat. It was the best poem ever written about a rat. To read it was to ask the rat to perch on the arm of your chair until you turned the page. So we wrote to him, but heard nothing; we called, and called again; then finally we sailed to the island where he kept the only shop and rapped his door until he opened up. We took away his poems. Our hands shook with excitement. We read them on lightboxes, under great lamps. They were not much good. So then we offered what advice we could on his tropes and turns, his metrical comportment, on the wedding of the word to the event, and suggested that he might read this or that. We said Now: write us more poems like The Rat. All we got was cheek from him. Then silence. We gave up on him. Him with his green arrogance and ingratitude and his one lucky strike. But today I read The Rat again. Its reek announced it; then I saw its pisshole stare; line by line it strained into the air. Then it hissed. For all the craft and clever-clever you did not write me, fool. Nor will you ever.