With respect for the lithe and wily specimen that startled me last night
by Sara Pipher


(Or, a poem for those that cannot be avoided)

I once read this fact in a magazine:
A full-grown rat can squeeze herself through a hole
the size of a silver dollar.
This news brought me little pleasure, as I was living
in a clapboard house
in rural Thailand, wooden walls as full of holes
as a moth-eaten screen door.

At night, squeals of rat fights,
scratches of claws
racing along the beams above my pallet.
In the morning, my belongings ransacked,
a map of night
illustrated in spilled rice and torn packages.

And yet? And yet--,
I have come to admire the cunning urban rat
for her ability to thrive in hostile territory.
Dodging wheels of trucks,
maulings of curious dogs,
pills of poison left out by conscientious urbanites.
She has mastered something that I have not:
The ability to divine from castoffs and leftovers
a good life,
a buffet of delicacies and delights.






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