Tonight I heard again the rat in the roof,
Fidgeting stuff about with a dry scuff,
Pausing in silence, then scratching away
Above my head, above the ceiling’s thin
Skin that separates his life from mine.
So shall I let him be, roaming so narrowly
In a few finger-widths of carpentry?
The evening passes by. I sit and write
And hear him skittering here and there in flight