The Rat

Money is your only motivator,

the sunken depths of 'you'll die alone' probably

rattling

through your middle-aged ears.

Sit up and stare into the midnight

distance hoping

that someone cares about you.

But they don't.

You are the shrew that eats the cheese

and asks

why the others work together

to gather

quietly

amongst the brambles and bushes

for hours on end

though there's little reward.

You think anyone will remember you -

many have forgotten you already and

you're still alive,

does that embarrass you?

There are more people than you know

that think of you

only

as the walking embodiment

of a migraine.

You are a disease for the ages -

one that festers lonely and hoping

that someone cares.

For there is nobody who deserves to be alone

quite

like

you.