What mud-drunk song waits

Let’s start with the obvious:
no one wants to be found
when only dirt-dreaming
gravediggers are looking anyway.
It’s better to leave simply
than to simply leave or stay
too long. Better to be a rat
crawling beneath ice-seamed streets,
gnawing on discarded hours
and half-forgotten songs, waiting
for the three-legged world
to shrug and turn away,
so you can scurry from your hole.
How easy it is to hide,
drunk on mud and blind,
so long as you believe
that you are not the hole.