Rats With Wings

Their claws scrape

across the metal

box dangling

from my window.

Each morning I hear the hoots

echoing about the brick-

lined alley outside my room,

signaling an imminent landning.

They descend. And

with each talon

that rasps across the A/C vent,

I twinge, feeling the nails

across my skin.

What do they want so badly?

Will pecking their way

into my room yield

some prize?

There's nothing so great

in here to justify

such effort.

Is the ledge beneath my

Frigidaire so appealing?

Are they just antagonizing me?

Or, like so many New Yorkers,

do they have to banish someone

else, to find a place

to sleep?