Letter From the Ledge

This morning, headed downhill to the train,
I saw a rat beneath the back wheel of a truck,
not crushed, more like a baby sleeping.

Its coat was lustrous, not the blood-crusted
thing I once found flat in the garage
and buried in a zip-lock bag.

Then, trapped in the stalled train, waiting
for the medical emergency up-line to clear,
I watched a spider dance within the ambit of a woman.

Last night, I caught the biopic
about the ice-pick wielding surgeon
who pierced the skull within the orbit of the eye

to calm the housewife, tame the stepson, clear bedlam.
If madness is a matter of degree
I’m glad the doctor’s out of business.