Night. I'm biking home. On the way I see a couple trying to sacrifice a rodent to the Evening Star. Pause in the archway of a villa to hand a British child four stones: jade, jasper, turquoise, alabaster. Lit diner. A homecoming feast for a star traveler who displays lobed things fluorescing chartreuse, pink, blue, white. In the restaurant's far wing, a party of fire fighters--a team of fame--salutes the first rat to pass the test. Some hold to the old cruelty, see a beast; others will credit your steps far past rat-nest.

FORTY-SIX YEARS LATER

Deep change is slow. In 1971, I saw this dream as an atmospheric nocturne of unclear meaning--though I sensed the Return of the Rat was the key to it. Only now, casting it as a poem, do I see it's about how contradictory social feedback can be--a warning you can't assume everyone will give you a fair chance--nor that will everyone see you as a mere thing, a sacrifice. Bias, whether racism, sexism or (as here) specism, varies. It's even true of your own judgments on yourself--you diss and condemn some mousy side of you until, after that same part works hard to master a new skill, you're forced to admit (despite your own prejudice) that you've made a breakthrough. The rat's a hero.

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