Poems by Richard Weaver

A Not-so Tall Tale of a Texas Rat with no name

He wasn’t much as rats go. Not what you’d call classic or manly.
Pretty much did what he wanted to do, or did nothing at all.
Couldn’t be bothered to learn no tricks, or run a maze. Had no truck
with mirrors or revolving doors, furry floors that moved, or lights
that danced light an epileptic. Eating was a given. He’d always eat.
He’d eat until he couldn’t hold it in, and then eat again. As for his
world view, what good could be said of a rectangular wire cage.
Other than the obvious: It’s challenging to chew. He did enjoy
being taken out at times, more often when it was raining, but more
so when not. Then times he’d be power washed with the hosepipe,
and stay out until he was dry. Freedom and perfumery were overrated
in his mind. All he really desired were hard cheeses to gnaw and some
asphalt to chew or maybe or maybe a chunk of tire rubber to grind
his dangerous teeth. Even a hunk of gnarly bodark was a Texas grown
treat. What’s good for fences is even better for teeth. He had no shadow
or other rats to help pass time. When the cage rattled he knew to raise
his eyes and point his ears in interest. He knew two hands would soon
descend, accompanied by a noise like wind but less meaningful, and he
would be borne upwards. He had learned to not bite the hand that feeds,
and wait patiently what always followed. Could be popcorn with some seeds
left un-popped. He could never guess. Today was different. Instead of a treat
he was placed inside a box that would not be chewed. Somehow it was stronger
than his teeth. He felt tremors beneath him for a while. For a time he was
lulled. And slept. He woke to new light glaring at him. And a man in white
staring as well. His body no longer moved when he wanted to move. He could
squeak, for all the relief that might bring. He felt something between his legs,
something intruding open his proud and round, larger than life testicles. In
most rats the testes are an astonishing 4% of body weight. In his case, his
were outliers. Far outside the norm. And knew pain. He knew an invasion
when he felt it. What he didn’t know was the word cancer. An aggressive,
interstitial tumor swelling his scrotum to un-draggable size. In this case,
a size that meant death. He heard more wind-made noises, different tones
and tenors. And then heard silence as he was lifted by two soft hands again,
and lowered into the unchewable, dark box. More movement, followed quiet
followed. And then light again, familiar light and what passed for home.
He was “free” but not free. A yeasty smell caught his noses’ attention.
Something ripe with flavors and textures that wanted to consume him
and he them. He saw something new. Shiny and new in his universe. A dull
brown shape with a nipple, a tempting nipple hanging there, free for the taking.
It was amber. Bubbly. It had a subtlety he admired. A smell that pleased
and warmed his belly and balls with a feeling he’d never known. He lay
on his side, ratling-like, sucking his fill. Savoring his life. Had he been a literary
rat, he might’ve been able to read the letters on the bottle label – Shiner Bock -
as his consciousness dwindled and ebbed and then flowed no more.

Research Lab Rat

sports the symbolic white knee-length coat, the daily drab
garb of doctors and researchers. His is styled to accommodate
his prehensile tail, and is not the kind who wears a pocket protector,
having a mind as sharp as his teeth and quick as a whisker twitch.
It’s understood he understands. Once he’s crawled across a scholarly
article he has it to heart. RLR has no compunction in being involved
with animal research, though he believes the species cutoff line is
neither Mason nor Dixon. It’s entirely patriarchal and therefore arbitrary.
Full well he knows we all run the maze, 2 and 4 legged, running
the length that is our life. How we run is all that matters. Head high,
eyes bright and forward focused. Nose fully engaged. Whiskers at
maximum sensory level and ears gathering the many sounds and decibels,
high and low, translating danger or possible pleasure. He hears beyond
humans, and longs for the squeaks of the wily, dangerous sex.
His disgust with cloning is well known and respected. He’s amazed
that sheep can be made dumber. No fan of ratooning is he. His special
field is ratified. Rational if rationalized and entirely rat based. He opposes
all methods of raticide, especially studies with guillotines. But, like Remy,
will do damage to a freshly tossed plate of ratatouille.