Pursuit
Something about my odor
Perhaps attracts the slimy rats
Gnawing at the slim remains of my flesh
The tendons stretched as strings
I am, by all means, a meal
Eyes, beady, twitch to follow my figure
Across dimly lit doldrums
Perhaps I am the rat
Falling into the trap just to steal the gouda
And skitter off, back to my hole
The cats, chasing and prowling
Always so close, yet out of reach
Preying and praying for only a taste
A mother cat’s tongue
With which they groom and pamper
Lure and comfort the simple child
Blithe, though not naive
To the textured strokes of mother’s preening
The clock hanging swings in measure
Tick tick tock
Three years, two years, one
The mouse runs up the clock
Long conceived dreams
Not so far, they seem
It is only a role
For whom the bell tolls
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