Living on a steady diet of rice,
forswearing the whey
for The Way,
the white Anglo-Saxon mouse
studies the ancient culinary arts
of its cousin, the Asian rat,
Inevitably,
his thoughts turn to cheese;
chunks of cheddar and creamy
camembert, gouda and gorgonzola
muenster and mozzarella.
As the diminutive turophile
runs down a mental list
of his favorite cheeses,
his tail and whiskers
twitch excitedly.
It is the way of a western rodent,
but he has chosen a different path
and meditates upon the moon
hanging
like a great wheel of Swiss in the sky.
What he would not give
for a single nibble from
its caseous surface.
Perhaps, he thinks, a western mouse
should not seek to emulate
an eastern rat.
THE MOVING MEN
The moving men are at the door,
Waltzing a danse macabre through the ghost stricken rooms
Of your once,
So called life,
Finalizing your divorce
By hauling all your belongings off to auction.
The last thing packed and sold
Is the ennui that had served you so well.
Every room is a mirror, every mirror
A reflection of some convoluted episode or other
From your sordid, insipid past,
The fables you made of your life.
You dream of glockenspiels banging in your head, a discordant
Concerto, the theme to some
Imaginary, expressionist drama
Where you always had the starring role.
They were gay, those years
Before being kicked bowlegged by life,
When youth and adventure
Were a slobbering dog licking your face.
You moussed your hair in those days
And didn’t worry about halitosis or alimony.
You wore shiny silk suits
And polished Italian shoes
And pretended to be
The King of Bohemia.
In the middle of the room
Where you stand, calling your love
Who won’t come,
Because she’s out clubbing,
The moving men continue their dance.
Looking for more of your possessions
To haul away and when you protest
There is no more,
They collect you in a box
And mail you six feet under.
Originally appeared in The Storyteller, 2010
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