Ole Ronnie & the Rat

My gait had a certain triumph to it as I crested North Avenue and began my initial descent into Penn Station.  At the Walbert Building, a tired looking, grim-faced man in blue dickeys was shaking his head as he walked out of the parking lot.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I asked, with a cheeriness you might use on a small child you have to befriend before an abduction.  The man twisted his mouth into a lasso of regret, and said:

Old Ronnie.
He got a rat on his engine.
It was dead --
      of course --
By the time we found it.
Old Ronnie.  Poor Ronnie.

Note:  I resolved to do something new for every month of my 34th year.  For April, my options were to get a tattoo or blog every day.   And my friend Seamus said blogging is better.  Here goes.