Rat, dying

Smoke break. Whatever else,
It’s a way of killing time. We’re miles
from twelve, still further from five.
The surgeon general’s warning
is mute about these mornings.

You know the ones I mean.
They’re all the same, once eight-
o-one puts the fat guy on our necks.
We step out to the sidewalk
for smokes and mutinous talk.

It’s there we witness this
slow-motion dance in circles—
no—pretzel-shaped pirouettes
on the cement. No question:
the little prick ate poison.

Well, it was meant for him,
and this was the end intended.
Nobody wants rats around.
And time means nothing to a rat,
but this is slo-mo for all that.

A slight aroma of disquiet
floats among our flicking ashes.
(Only sickies enjoy suffering.)
A few more threats to the fat jerk,
then it’s crushed butts. Back to work.