Poem By Cynthia Gallaher
There were more mice, and more mice,
and more and more mice,
and by midnight, there were close to a hundred,
slidin’ and skatin’ on the waxed wood floor,
as if someone loosed
a bucket of iggy marbles.
It was four below zero,
You could feel it clear through the porch hole,
grown big enough to run a baseball bat,
the corner where their sharp teeth
had taken turns chewin’ through paint and plaster board.
From my bed, they sound like a flock of loons
landing on shore,
hunting for minnows,
but those furry critters
found Cheetos, hot cocoa mix,
pizza flour and shortening,
a city mouse feast
in our shingle cottage pleat,
on the outskirts of town,
making themselves right at home
at the rural, resort edge
of leisure-mouse living.
My husband Harlan bought
a sack of piping hot doughnuts,
upended and stacked them
old tires on the front lawn,
to the steaming sweetness.
It took more than a morning
of canvas tarp knots and Sakrete to plug that hole;
never heard from those varmints again.