POOR BEASTIE

 

The man came today to kill the mice.

When I come home,

little concentration camps

will be set up in the laundry room,

the closets, my bathroom.

My sacred ground will become a labor camp

for minute and furry Jews.

When I come home, I’ll crawl into my harbor

of a tub, note the little squares of tiles connected

on the floor and envision the little mice

huddled together as tiles,

connected with the grout of fear

waiting for the gas

and I’ll recite Robert Burns like a prayer,

hum the little Scottish hymn

as I tilt my head back onto the cast iron cool

Today, when I get home,

I will have been raped of my little parallel souls

running free and rampant in my universal shelter

where they all but understood my need for warmth.