(for the rat who survives me)

Either they treed me

or I hid in the weed, or wash

was my overcoat or drink

was my wish.

Either they missed my face

in the tea or my stink in the hash or my hand

in the honeysuckle. I’ve been brown

nosing the has-beens and had grey (what’s-the)

matters with the squash.

Either they didn’t water me or I turned

to a desert rat, either I humped, camelian

or they dumped me; I was game

or they burned my bridge and shot

my pool with lily killer. Man. Either you

used up your stunt juice or my antibody grew.