Rats

a poem by Roger B Rueda

They wake us up in the small hours.
They come and go as they want to.
Running through the ridge,
scrabbling in the roof space.
The snares we set
only capture our eyes.
You might see them
if you forgot your face,
which fits well
in one of their footpaths.
What we overlook, they spread.
Kernels in every corner
of our house.
The breeze hashes out,
drops itself quickly
down the pipe to drink.
Unseen roots tap us for water.
Blooming about us, meadows of stars.