Of Mice and Men

Nicholas Lavender
Mice like to scurry in your halls, 
breeding exponentially, 
needing ostensibly,
heeding insensibly.

Kill them with your steel-toed boot
but don’t forget about their wives
back in their little mouse-holes,
waiting for their husbands to be back
with supper stolen from your kitchen.

Manipulate yarn with wooden needles 
until you’ve made something beautiful. 
Hang it above your fireplace
and watch as it fills with gifts
that aren’t for you.

Perch on the branches of the tree 
outside your childhood bedroom 
and sing whistling songs until
your throat hurts
and somebody yells at you to get down.

Go back to the mousewives 
in their mouse-holes
and tell them about your day;
don’t mention their husbands.