"Mice."
OK, this is "Mice."
"They see a cluster of small--"
I feel like I'm being a funny poet tonight.
This doesn't always happen.
Sometimes it's like deeply sad and erotic
in the darkest possible way, but tonight, it's funny.
"They see a cluster of small rubber ducks
and scraps of broken shells and think, I'll shit there.
We described them as brazen when they run through what
actually is their home.
So I begin to kill them, because I'm better than them.
One was seen running into the bathroom, my bathroom.
And a small, frail one was found dead right on the floor.
And the poison is working.
And I feel bad because in fact, I liked living with them.
They're part of my life.
Their little shits everywhere.
And I have killed their child.
They're unclean, anyone would say.
Isn't that why I must kill them?
But I'm unclean too.
Isn't that why they're here?
And I generally have guests who say, this place is so small.
They look around and I feel shame.
And I look around usually right after a trip
or in a couple of days, and it's small.
But not to them.
They think it's huge, perfect.
And that is a friend.
And why don't I keep them around?
Come back.
And I know you will."