Evidence of Things Unseen

At first a scratch behind the wall.

Swelling pipes? Then

streamers of insulation

behind the toilet, frayed

carpet threads near baseboard molding.

Refresh the traps, clean out

the old peanut butter bait,

green and hard in the bowls.

Rats take days to grow comfortable

with changes in the room.

But on a rainy night,

when there’s little to feed on, a snap

in the dark. In the morning, I find

the limp, mud-colored

body of our suspicions.

There’s relief, an easing of defenses,

but always less than we hope for.

More evidence leaks into the day,

seeps into the streets until I hear

a scratch behind everything:

the pavement, the stalled air settling

around the grape hyacinth, the dogwood

shading the corner, even the stop signs

that prevent nothing.