The Trap

The space between bread
and the breaking point
of the profit
of a happy life
is smaller than the gap
in the foundation
below the kitchen sink

where another field mouse
shimmies up the pipes
and along some edge

of metal or wood
to make her way
to the crumbs
on the counter
under the toaster.

Consent to the heat
that will erase the stale
drought of the morning.
Slather the crispiness
with butter and raspberry jam
and ignore it all

until you hear fate scratching
in that dark place near your feet
and fear will drown
in a thimble
filled with
coffee
and sweet
cream.