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