Rats

Don’t go into the garden, Maude; I think the rats are back. Stay with me a while We’ll lie here and listen to the Singsong of pingpong from below. But don’t go into the cellar, It smells of bicycle oil And rotted cabbage, Of plums in jars clad in white mould. Yes, look, see how they hang From the branches, Dainty like dancers, So elegant For all the weight of their Disease-bloated rancid Flesh. Leave them the nuts, Come back from the window. The birds are all dead, anyhow. Frozen into the sky, don’t you see? Come back and be with me, We’ll recline a while. Don’t leave me, Maude, The rats are at the door, Listen, their tiny nibbles Patter like rain against The glass, and the night Climbs down all cold claws. Silence, now. The last bounce echos. The rats lie dead too, So comely as cadavers, Don’t you think, Maude? Maude?