Poem 248

Contending with a slight rodent problem and researching what to bait the trap with, I was struck by the sublime confidence of the bald assertion that gives the poem its title – no qualifiers (some mice or sometimes) required or even tolerated … it seems that in a world and universe where there is so little we can unquestioningly rely on, there yet remains one bulwark of certainty for us to cling to …

Mice Love Vanilla

it reminds them of their home
in the sweet bean plantations
of a distant isle 
                             under a full moon there
a cool vanilla breeze 
rustles the leaves
and dusky mouse maidens 
                                                 dance
a drop of essence 
behind each ear

they go into a dream 
when they smell 
                              the smell
of the brown-soaked bread 
in the trap
whiskers atremble
                                  they dance again
in the cool white isles
before the moon comes down 
with a snap