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Rat For Thought

I hide in the dirt where he never looks,
Even in pots, which he cooks.
I share the cold of the room,
With a vacuum cleaner and a worn broom.
My food is scraps mixed with straw,
And other crumbs I find on the floor.
I climb the furniture and the stair,
Gnawing everything I find there.
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With a broken claw, and silver eye.
Followed by the neighbours cat gracefully thin,
Eyes intent on a kill almost sunken in.
A scrap of cheese beginning to harden,
I find near the trash in the walled garden.
A garden, and such gardens are not made,
I stare in wander content in the shade.