I’m sitting in my Berkeley office, which is an uninsulated small structure described by building inspectors as a pretty shed. It has a big desk, plenty of wiring, and several windows, so it’s a nice spot for working in or exercising, provided it isn’t too dark or cold outside. This shed sits on the ground, across a small deck from my studio cottage, and it’s used as much by backyard denizens as by me.

Varmints get under it. It sounds like some live under it, at least part of the year. I hear disturbing scrabbles and sometimes mewling late at night and early in the morning. I see evidence of digging and burrowing on the ground at the ends of the building.

I hope it’s skunks. I fear it’s rats.

I don’t like rats. I like mammals in general and I have tried with rats, especially during those years when Katie kept them as pets, but I have never admired their canniness, let alone their naked tails.

I strive to not be squeamish with its tone
of weak dependence but the scritch I hear
of late unsettles me … I nearly moan
surprised to note that rats are what I fear.
Their hairless tails repel me horrified,
imagining a mob, recalling too
the one that ate a neighbor’s pesticide
and how we winced at what we had to do.
I shudder to remember, and I dread
the image cast by worry on the screen
tomorrow makes. I’m wishing mammals dead
as if I were the heir presumptive queen
of hissy fits and shivers, flailing wrist
and shoulder quivers, suffered to exist.