Keeping House

by Michelle Morgan

When we found the rigid grey corpse of
a field mouse floating in the fry daddy,
we knew something had to be done.
It wasn't enough that at 2 o'clock every
morning we'd wake to the incessant
gnawing in the wall, or hear bantam claws
clicking on nuts rolling through secret streets.
This last filthy offense drove us to extremes.
In apartments across America, we believed,
mice are expected to be seen dashing along
the floorboards, fouling up the wiring, and
even in some remote rustic cabin their
everpresence could be a comfort, like
dogged guests who keep loneliness at bay.
But houses in the suburbs should be quiet
at night, and clean. No noise should breach
the expanse of darkness that floods into
the corners, or the spaces between bodies
lying in beds. Dissidence, to let them live,
to allow cardboard boxes of crackers to be
shredded in the cupboard, to wipe away
little pellets like cleaning up after a pet.
But what does life do but try to live, and
which one of us hasn't left a mess wherever
we've been? No matter that we will all starve
someday, tending tidy lawns and spotless tubs,
scouring complete the endless sweep
of existence settling like dust over every
piece of furniture. What are we but the
merciless servants of being, keeping house?