When You Live in an Old House
You must have a mouser. And when you walk through the kitchen You risk discovery of the gift. Never quite dead.
Cute, except when it’s pooping in your silverware, Or chewing up your favorite winter scarf.
The crunch of bone, Felt, or rather heard, it’s hard to tell which. You’ll be grateful you had your boots on.
You’ll be glad, feeling the crunch of bone, That it’s suffering is over.