While we are sitting in front of the TV
watching GIRLS, we take a pause. My
wife walks into the kitchen. There is
a mouse on the oven roaming around
in search of food? Was it chased
in from another apartment
or the cold and the rain? Did our pet
guinea pigs invite then uninvite them
then crash anyway with the promise
that there is forever food
even if their owners are drinking and/or
in a mood. In this big city we need to
know when someone’s coming over
whether dog, robot or a tiny mouse
named Clover
as if out of a Disney cartoon
where they can make the best soup
and talk and can hold a spoon,
not like in reality where they are pooping everywhere
and must be beaten
to death with a spoon
as a last resort,
those sticky traps as they squeak
in the end.
Somewhere in heaven
are they sitting on our laps?