Last night, I dreamt of rats. 
They grew in number 
on the old oak floors 
of some other me’s house 
as I tried to fix it  
the only way I knew how,  
level-headed and researching 
as they multiplied at my feet. 

I felt you there.  Were you the rats 
or the house?  Or a body buried  
under some squeaky floorboard, 
one nail slightly bent as signal 
for me to come back for you 
later, after I’d finally discovered 
the root some chronic emptiness 
boring, predictable. 

Or are you the landlord 
and me the body, 
just beneath your feet  
reveling in the proximity to you, 
alive or dead. 

But I woke, as I do  
before I could find out  
or fix what was broken 
and in some dreamscape, I fear, 
my house or yours 
is still covered in rats.