By Jean Janicke

Dedicated to Lucy and her pet rats Teacup and Splat.

As the night starts pulsing like a flickering
streetlight. my friends bustle by the bins
in the back alley.
I gather the girls giggling
by the garbage, smooth my hair from whiskers
to tail, and wait for Lucy to turn up the volume
on our favorite song.

Lucy taps her foot to the tempo,
faster than her heartbeat, slower
than mine, sings into a wooden
spoon, metronome waves her arm
at the reflection in the kitchen window.

She doesn’t see us in the dark, naked
eye can’t tell we’re bopping in sync, heads
nodding a greeting to the downbeat.
I always call “I love that song too”
but my words wisp like a blink.

We burrow into the shadows of Saturday
night, leaving behind the myth
that only humans feel the beat.

About the Author

Jean Janicke is an economist, coach, and writer living in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in Green Ink Poetry, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and Rabbit: A Journal for Non-Fiction Poetry.