The Rat
Damn that rat!
I could hear it
scuffling about
in the closet.
He'd been there
some time
and I'd heard
footsteps.
Then there were
the phone calls,
from a female
called, Ratessa
Ratessa - called
every day, wanting
to speak to my rat.
No excuses.
Mostly I'm bad
at spotting clues
but this was
see through.
What to do?
I called environmental health.
The rat catcher
came quickly.
He was a big, burly bloke
with dark eyebrows,
tattoos and a
six pack.
‘It's alright love',
he shouted.
‘I'll get your rat,
you leave this to me.'
I led him in,
straight through to the back.
He stood, aghast,
when he saw my rat
‘I know you' he snapped
‘I've seen you
at our back door
with my Mrs.
My two kids,
are the spit of you!
Then he dragged
my rat outside.
I heard a squeak
and then a crack
and then
a blood curdling splat
I peeped outside, no rat,
just a couple of teeth
and blood stains
on the mat.
I poured myself a drink,
discarded wedding rings,
and put on a
cocktail dress, black,
in mourning,
for my late husband - the rat
that had finally -
been caught.
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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