GRUMPY OLD MAN
I feel for this roof rat
that all week turned up
his nose at my traps
and poisons, but finally
couldn’t avoid December’s
subzero cold: overnight
he crept out to meet it
in the middle of our garage.
Now—paws clenched
like goathead pods,
each eye a pinch
of want—his face
is a mask of sacrifice.
To what? Not the likes
of me, I think, as I scoop
the rat into a paper bag
with a black dust pan,
then dump it in the trash.
Non omnis moriar, my ass.
I like this.
Roberto Bolaño says somewhere, in a lecture I think, that "the act of writing is a conscious act of humility." As against the typical Western notion that writing is some kind ego-trumpet…
Joseph, I've been reading your work (slowly, as I do) and find it well-wrought, which is a phrase that sounds too much like iron-work, but the metaphor might still apply, if iron is an element out of which to make poetry. To continue the metaphor, it is honed. However, obviously there is more, most striking the opening to a surprising recognition the poems make.<br /><br />A well-chosen
I believe Horace would have had one of his boy-servants dispose of the beasty, Vassilis. But I'm glad you and Conrad and Bob were pleased!
"each eye a pinch of want"–wow!<br />Great detail in the middle and, yes, the perfect last line.
I agree.<br /><br />Especially the last line-perfect.
Executed perfectly, my good man–I'm sure Horace would have done likewise!