M Is for Mouse

In a dark drawer he shreds the bristles
of a basting brush,
gleaning oil from the boar’s hair,

then rears, snout stained
by the bouillon cube he despoiled.
His whiskers twitch, he listens . . .

No, he is alone. The sportscasters
are courtside
collaborating on a bedtime story.

Play by play threaded with color,
action with consequence—
the man of the house,

permitted to stay up, drifted off
to that comforting
suspense. The wife braces

in her blanket of white noise.
Her dreams,
if remembered, will surprise

then confirm. The daughter’s legs lengthen
inexorably
like the mouse’s incisors

that crumbled the golden cube—
nownownownownow
goes his creature heart.