A Mouse
In the attic of my house dwells a mouse.
The creaking noise he makes
Reminds me of a sculptor who carves
An image all night long.
Again when he dances about with his wife,
He whirls around with the vigor of a race horse.
Though the dirt and dust of the attic flutter down
On the paper as I write,
How should he know?
But I stop to think:
I am living with mice.
Let there be good food
And a cozy nest for them.
In the ceiling, let them, from time to time,
Drill a hole and peep down on me.
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