Rats

“And my reign as the ‘king of fools’
Is solidified as the ‘king of rats’”
—Varials, ‘Empire of Dirt’

For Frankie

I have been treated like a rat
My whole life—my whole life!—and a feeling
About one’s whole life
Is one to be taken seriously, especially
When it applies more widely, as I have met
Many rats—many many rats; in fact
I have met only rats
In different suits and perfumed masks, while in our homes
We exist as the same filthy, all of us
So-called “different” rats.
But where are the best rats? The real rats?
The authentic rats? Those rats
That reek of rat hood
And come from no good—no love—but still
Make the pub, those
Rats
Only seen as louts, who get spat on
As soon as they leave the house. Have you ever seen
Anything as brave
As a dirty, beaten, authentic(!),
Unshaved rat
Still drinking at the bar, perfumeless
Right under your nose? Their
Filthiness—their gorgeousness—
Making everyone’s skin crawl
Underneath their feeble fur?

I bet we all feel like rats. I bet…
I bet we are all even rats
Beneath it all.

But me letting anyone treat me like their droppings
For being a true, filthy, authentic rat?

Fellow rats: even if you do not intentionally
Poke my nest, I could still
Be forced to chew through your drywalls.