THE HOARDER HAD NO PETS

unless you counted the coon
which hissed like a tomcat
at the mutts and kids.

A waddling skunk served as
his arthritic Siamese.

He did not count the five hundred
seventy eight rats the workmen
scooped in metal shovels
after the initial fumigation,

the uncountable mice
they had to double-bag,
there were so many

mice.

The crickets which swarmed
the house’s one
damp sponge,

and sang the man to sleep
like a clutch of metal canaries.

How the flies in summer
crowded grimy windows not
to flee but
permit the meager light

to filter through their wings
like slender fingers
stroking the cords of a harp.






Paul David Adkins grew up in South Florida and lives in New York.