Backyard Monologue with Rats and Coins

 

Backyard Monologue with Rats and Coins

I was just remembering—
coins half-buried in the dirt,
found not by fate, but by strange routine.
The housekeeper, silent sage,
tossed antique rounds through morning mist
as if history were compost
and luck, a game of chance on damp soil.

At twelve, perhaps fourteen,
I believed in APIs that could predict dreams,
as if youth and data were neighbors
in a sandbox of wishes.

Yesterday, the blender whispered horrors—
rings of blackwater tattooed its walls,
and meals churned through quiet decay.
We've been sipping from corruption,
dining with ghosts no one names.

Rats circle the tank like forgotten thieves,
mosquitoes chant their lullabies,
while rivers lie motionless,
diseases dancing unseen below the current.

Our city,
an evolution built on fraud and facades,
dresses itself in buildings,
credit lines for charming liars.
And when the organizations clump together,
they say joy blooms in unity—
but rats still pee at the corner café.

Years pass,
someone falls sick,
and we call it genetics
because it's simpler than saying
we ate where pests washed their feet.

Somewhere in Alabama,
swamps swallow foundations,
and the monster just nods
beside body dispensaries.

And oh—those coins again.
Each week, old metal lands like fallen stars,
a collection not stolen, but mistaken,
a miracle misunderstood.
Until one punch to the head ends the tale,
and the rare become irrelevant
in the backyard of forgetfulness.

Fresh wave—eliminate odors naturally,
but memory lingers
where black rings hold their place.

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