House Mouse

Even the mist was daffodil yellow in the morning sun,
a breakfast slant of April sun that glowed on my banana tip.

And in the shadow of my arm a mouse lay, white belly up
like a lemur sunbathing. Begging she was, paws curled,

miniature paws like nail clippings, hind legs crossed
in a rather elegant fashion, tail a lollipop stick.

Pricked on her shadow, her ear and fur stood sharp as grass
but her real ear was soft, thin, pliable, faint as a sweetpea petal

and her shut eye a tiny arc like the hilum of a broad bean.
Yesterday she was plump. Today she's thin. Sit her up, she'll sit.

You can see how Lennie would have 'broke' his, petting it,
for mine weighs no more than a hairball, nestling in my palm

as though it were wood pulp, crawlspace, a 'wee-bit housie'
and she, the pup, the living thing. The baby look's still on her.

And the depth of her sleep. I tuck her into the finger
...