Rodney the Mouse
Rodney, my angel, my
midnight hunter, my regular
tonight no one is watching
the moon lay its satins
across the tile. No one
hears the cold
kick the pane glass.
No one cleaned
the egg pan, either.
This is your world, Rodney.
I’ve been noticing recently that my shits
have been looking more like your shits. Rodney,
is this because we’re on the same diet?
Are we made of the same tubes,
the same gauze that keeps it together?
Little lord, sweet
I’m going to kill your family. One by one,
in the snap trap in my closet. I’ll stiffen
each tail to wire, a hard little lightning strike.
Your wife is a hedonist, she lives in my oven.
Rodney, I’ve been having this recurring
dream, it always starts the same way:
palms full of tiny mouse ears.
I pinch another off my eyeball like a contact lens.
I place the ears carefully on the pads of my fingertips
and hold them out in clemency.
Then one by one I eat them.
This is usually something
done at a party,
sexily, with olives.