A Rat In My Garbage Can

CLICK HERE TO HEAR AUTHOR READ

Lifted the lid as I do

every Friday to drop in

the week’s sack

for the truck’s prehistoric jaws

to devour and disappear.

There it was 

at the empty bottom,

lifeless, lying on its side

like a deflated football.

Not like looking down

a cavernous wishing well—more like

a jack-in-the-box ambush.

I reeled,

my labyrinthine mind scurrying

for an answer:

it tumbled in while

sniffing for scraps

and couldn’t climb back out.

Small furry survivor

of the T-Rex-killing asteroid,

done in by a dumb

plastic bin

from Home Hardware; thump.

I imagined the frantic,

futile claw-scratch scratching

against the bin’s

smooth cylindrical walls.

Had to smirk.

Next thought: 

where there’s one,

there are many.

I peered through the fence

at my neighbour’s yard,

rows of containers

behind his shiny,

brand-new black Porsche.

It wasn’t the first time

I’d surveyed his trash

like a detective scrounging

for clues of ill-gotten gains.

While I stuck conscientiously

to a one-bag-a-week quota,

he always had two,

sometimes even three and four—evidence

he was an uncaring waster,

always a bit of a jerk, really.

And a menace.

My empty bin trapped the rat,

but it was my neighbour

who invited it

with his extravagant

consumption.

That’s when I heard

the inevitable truck’s roar,

rusty brakes screaming.

Darkness crossed

my sunny soul

like an omen eclipse.

We’re all doomed.