A mouse squeezes into himself to get
behind a wall (the crack is small
between the part that's always dark and
a humming thing in which they keep things cold)
Each with a dollop of imported cheese,
six glue traps are lined against the border
where stove-top meets refrigerator: man's
no-mice-land, which he must cross to get in.
The mouse would rather live in a field, even
where a falling cloud turns out to be a hawk,
but there's none here, God's pidgin' maws
and skyscrapers. Do fellow mammals help?
His very distant cousin went to bed
hoping he'd wake to panicked shrieks--
For six mornings now all he gets
are "cumin seeds"--the rodent's gifts
upon the counter-top. Can't a penthouse
spare overfed cats' and overfed owners'
peanuts with a skinny mouse? Crumbs
keep him alive. This is called charity.
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