Boysenberry Eyes Awhirl
A Caseworker's Nightmare
In a corner of the room
scribbles of loose yarn soar,
interweave and dive
like coasters at a carnival.
At dusk rats slither from the drain
and barrel through the room
stirring atom puffs of dust
beneath the paper sprung
tongue out from each wall.
Tails wound tight, the rats
skate their figure eights
between the table legs and swirl.
They pause to supper on salami bits,
gherkin nodes, crusts of ancient bread.
At dawn, with boysenberry eyes awhirl,
they belly back and leap atop the sink.
Popping sounds announce
the drain has called them home.