As Rat Poop Fills My House Poem by James McLain

There are no doors there are no windows
only a throne of cheese filled with holes.
Cushions of fragrance litter the commons
traveled pots o stew sprinkled over with little
brown pellets.
Flamingo pink eyes of white moist be waiting
to guide the albino owner of the great
reed shipped raft that never floats.
Hidden in your popcorn hoarse that voice
whispers from lockjaw.
Traps never emptied halls filled to the knees
little tanned people riding bare backed.
We have the best tomatoes here to market.