A poem

Whether Or Not The Stars Were Out

There is flattened rat on the asphalt, circle 

of smoothed guts black like a new moon,

vacating life from the silvery-haired body.

I take the elevator up one floor, undress 

in the thin light of the bathroom; through

socks I feel the radiator warmth pooled

on the tile floor. A cheap pink oozes over 

the lip of my sock, pressed against the back 

of my ankle rubbed raw by last night’s heels. 

It looks like a glaze, like it’s ready for the kiln, 

to be pulled out the next morning a gasping green;

the wonder of how heat can change things.

© CAI