that's what I get
for setting 2 alarms—
one goes off while I
try to turn off the other.

we live lives of lush poverty
   in this latter day depression.
M screams into the phone
   about a mouse the cat has
proudly brought into the house,
   then abandoned.
      terrified, I find her still
in towel.
"He's there," she said, pointing
to a shelf. sure enough,
   underneath it all, back in the corner,
      the mouse.
plastic cups, brooms, we poke,
he runs, we give chase as she
screams—refuge behind the
stacked washer and dryer.

a more elaborate plan is formed.
boxes on the floor, the back door open,
surely he'll run straight out.
more poking, one last sighting—
   back underneath. missed again.
maybe a live trap? he's not
   coming out.

I tip my hat to the
   frenzied instinct that guides
us to scurry from place to place,
   ducking and dodging for cover.
      somehow, it seems, through it all,
     there's a backdoor open somewhere
and all the pushbrooms waiving at us
   are panicked signs that
     we should get where we belong.