In the Year of the Rat

When the Year of the Rat is over
and the distance is no longer palpable
even at six feet apart.
When my silence is no longer complicit.
A knee to the throat for example.
When doctors and nurses
are not the last people in the room.
I might feel better
in the Year of the Ox,
less a scavenger
and less petrified of those ratty tails.
If I could return to a barstool
where I’d sip dry martinis or RSVP
to boring soirées I will miss,
I might feel better.
When I set the traps.