The King Rat Bastard Gets Another Go at a Fulfilled (Exurban) Existence

Poetry

C.T. Lark

Maybe a corporate gig wasn’t the ticket

out this time ‘round. Maybe this king rat finally needs

a vacation, to cut those cuticles clean and learn

sixteen different ways to slice and cook a cucumber.

Knowledge gets the power, and between bounced

checks and bundled insurance shams, he’s got

to kick back. See that concrete slab? That one sunny

patch matching a chair or chalked nap? His name’s

right on it! Complimented, accommodated, nearly-but-

not-quite alleviated by a twelve-pack clay mask kit and

rosemary oil. Use carjacks and paper shredders as white

noise. Try directly-sourcing car exhaust instead of

boiling it out of sink water. Scruff loves muck, and

there’s plenty in these springs. Tragic how daiquiris spoil

under duress, how dirt’s the only thing with taste these days.

The rat’s got his arrhythmia back on track, but his

eyes now enjoy burning in lavender suds. Setbacks just signal

to prune all that rots. What’re feet to a rat with

no need to scurry? Those lungs don’t smoke any more.

Snouts don’t need snuff when it’s got skin crying out

for exfoliation. It’s his turn to take those spring leaves,

chew, and spit out something new this time.