©2011, Olan L. Smith

"Mom! A mouse is in the house,"

He shrieks. "She has babies hanging from her teats.

Yes, from her nipples," he repeats.

"Cotton! Kill that mouse."

My wife implores. I'll not have a mouse in my house."

"Where is it?" I ask.

As I go about my task

To hunt an invisible aggravation that dares to enter our congregation.

"It's headed for the kitchen

Carrying her brood,

Isn't that a bitchin'?"

My wife articulates as she adjusts her blouse.

Bent on all fours I scan the floor

Looking under cabinets from door-to-door

My keen vision with its tri-focal revision searches for such an untimely visitor

As I peer beneath the refrigerator.

To my surprise and to the she mouse, too,

I gaze upward just inches from our flooring

We stare eye-to-eye, the mouse and I—

She applies the brakes, all fours reversing

Noses-to-noses, personality-to-personality

Is hunter and quarry both with expressions wide-eyed.

Fear and amusement directly from

A "Tom and Jerry" cartoon, who says there is no originality.

She skates closer, her turn about gear

Falls short upon our glassy-floor, I fear.

I laugh as she scurries away

And I say, "I'll see you, Mom Mouse, perhaps another day."