The Tarpit of the Train Station

The Tarpit of the Train Station

On steel parallels and shallow

earth the rats know life

as it is: patterned, mildly

irregular, and rotting.

They stand around the low

brush of autumn like cavities

in a dog’s mouth.

Their sound is hard

to place but the lights

from the parking lot

are just bright enough

to guide them.

So, when the rat’s eyes strain

towards the edge of the light

the remains of something important

comes towards them: a 92’ Town Car,

grey, gasping for air, and missing

the train. The world unfurls in low light,

and I, the Rat King, await my carriage.