Mouse

"They're finding their way in," he says
as he puts down another trap, and then another
in the strangest nooks or the restaurant.
I see his arm reach behind a fortress
made of highball glasses
and I imagine a brown mouse
stirring my drink
and peeling the skin of an orange
toward him, somehow, without mouse thumbs,
leaving behind a trail of snowy pith.

Eric saw one once,
standing upright near the window
as if to blend in
amongst the prep cooks
ready to mandoline radishes half her size,
"yes chef" in her mouse mouth. 

But later that night, a trap worked
and it was only half what I expected:
its small body stuck in glue
and still revealing half of the product logo
somewhere between an advertisement
and an admonishment.

It writhed in silence
and I wanted to cry, filling the space,
soft and green, scooper-up of animals.
With the same tenderness,
Kyle navigated around me
and moved the trap with his left hand
into the trash bag in his right hand.