Mouse

I admire the way mouse dashes across the top bracket

of the blinds while we’re reading in bed. I admire the tiny whip

of its tail at the exact second my husband tries to grab it.

I admire the way it disappears into our house and shreds various

elements. I admire the way it selects the secret corridors

behind cupboards and drawers, the way it remains on the reverse

side of our lives. The mouse is what I think of when I think of

a poem, or of music, going straight for the goods, around

the barrier of our thoughts. It leaves droppings, pretending to be

not entirely substantial, falling apart a little here and there.

Clearly, it has evolved perfect attention to detail. I wish it would

concentrate on the morning news, pass the dreadfulness out

in little pellets. Yesterday I found a nest of toilet paper and

thought I’d like to climb onto that frayed little cloud. I would like

to become the disciple of that mouse and sing “Wooly Bully”

in a tiny little voice in the middle of the night while the dangerous

political machines are all asleep. I would like to have a tail

for an antenna. But, I thought, also, how it must be to live alone

among the canyons of cabinets, to pay that price, to look foolish

and trembling in daylight. Who would willingly choose to be

the small persistent difficulty? So I put out a spoonful of peanut butter

for the mouse, and the morning felt more decent, the government

more fair. I put on my jeans and black shirt, trying not to make

mistakes yet, because it seemed like a miracle that anyone tries at all.