Friday, February 13, 2015

Mouse In My Pocket

Mouse In My Pocket

As I was sitting by the fire,
All peacefully and warm,
A mouse climbed up my sweater,
Intending me no harm.

He searched my shirt's breast pocket,
For tiny bits of food,
And popped out spitting pocket lint,
Which hadn't tasted good.

He looked at me and said, "I'd 'oped
For bits o' bread or soup!"
Angry, he climbed back inside,
And left behind some poop.

He scrambled to my table,
Still glaring up at me,
And when he climbed on my old cup,
Peed in my Earl Grey tea!

I wanted to say something,
Acerbic, smart, and wise,
I sat there fuming, speechless,
Transfixed by small black eyes.

"Why is your accent British?"
Was my pathetic scream.
I swear he smiled as he replied,
"Don't ask me, it's your dream!"

Then as though composed of smoke,
He faded from my sight;
And I sat up, awakened,
By dawn's cold, wintry light.

My wife still wonders why I did,
Those things when I got up:
I vacuumed out my pockets,
And bleached my old tea cup.

Mick McKellar
February 2015

I was dreaming this little story as I woke up this morning. No, I didn't vacuum my pockets or put bleach in my tea cup. I did look in my shirt pocket, though.


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