The pack rat’s an artistic chap.
He crafts his home from this and that.
Fine spines of cholla o’er his head,
A skull from something long since dead.
A down-turned wheelbarrow is his roof.
It’s strong. It’s safe. It’s waterproof.
A poor man’s geodesic dome,
This moderne pack rat calls his home.
I wondered where my tee shirt went.
He’s using it to stuff a vent.
With entrances both aft and fore,
A pinecone makes an edgy door.
His entry mat’s a pelt of mouse –
So welcoming to any house.
His bed’s a pilfered robin’s nest.
(A scratchy place to take one’s rest.)
But savvy pack rat knows his stuff.
It’s lined with dandelion fluff.
He guards a cache of booty dear,
So he can keep his assets near.
A sparrow egg, some purple thread,
A plastic action-figure head.
Dry twigs make up his portico –
Think Gaudi crossed with Art Deco.
Though his design may be outre’,
They said the same of Wright and Pei.
Some critics cry, “Abomination!” –
This surreal conglomeration.
I affirm, sans hesitation,
“It’s an important installation.”