Taylor Graham

No more skitter across spaces
in the garage. No squeak repeated
into silence. The corners keep
their shadow crevices.
The bait station is a hoard of bright
blue grain untouched. Poison.
Piled boxes guard
an emptiness, a shiver
deeper than January cold.
On Saturday, a gunman killed
a stranger in this town.
After long illness, a poet-
friend has died.
A quiz: Shall I
mourn a rat? Something isn’t
that was alive.