Three Drowned Mice

 

In September

the rodents move in

from the grasses and sunshine

to the spaces between the walls

and floorboards,

carrying seeds and looking 

for crumbs from the toaster

and the occasional ripening pear 

or red tomato on the kitchen counter;

a prune under the edge of the oven.

Last night I trapped them,

drowning three

in a bucket in the basement.

They were not blind.

They used their quivering noses

to find the pasty peanut butter

on the can over the barrel

and fell

to their watery 

deaths,

never to chase me in the night

with their scratchy scurry again.

Not one to ever nibble

through the crusts of the sourdough,

poop in the cupboards near the cups 

and unsuspecting saucers,

or shove seeds into the toes of my sneakers.

Human 3, mice zero.