December 12, 1980
Lusty screams from the furnace vent
Soon, newborns in the wall
seeking the nipple
Frances gave them cheese on a plate
they took the grains in the cupboard
We gave them the run of the stove
they nested in the dresser
We gave them sanction from the neighbors cats
they took the darkroom enlarger for their toilet
They scamper near the bed at night
plant pellets on our pillows.
I've been dreaming merciful mouse traps
with infra-red detectors and sliding-door cages
They've taken the engine compartment of the refrigerator
They've taken the inch beneath the piano
We heard a rustle in the dark kitchen
I high-wired with outstretched hands
wincing at each floorboard creak
I groped the wall and splashed light on two grey fluffs
scampering the back of the counter
behind boxes of teas and bottles of condiments
under the hanging iron pan
across the inch-wide chasm to the stove
into the nearest burner hole
and out of sight
The field was littered with droppings
not so nasty for their chemistry
as for their symbolism of defile.
I could see trails of their play
between chunks of cauliflower and tomato
abandoned at the assembly of our evening salad.
I reached for the paper-covered wheel
of Finnish cracker bread
It had been their refectory,
They had feasted on the rye
I looked inside
Face-to-face at twelve inches
Papa mouse quivered tooth to tail
Voltage gripped me
as I cast for an empty bag, box, jar
then eased the flap of the package closed
and walked toward the bedroom
"Frances, I've got the mouse in the cracker bread!"
"Don't hurt it, let it outside."
The prisoner moved under my hand
squirmed through the folds of paper
The whiskered face scanned for a getaway
my stomach clenched and the throbbing body leaped into space.
Tiny feet lay rubber on the linoleum
as the fugitive thumped
and skidded under the old upright,
asylum too slim for my prying flashlight
Two notes make sluggish return
The typewriter's been taken; the V key sticks.
In Victorian outrage I screech
and saddle my Sunday to their defeat.
~ Tim