The mice 

There’s a dead old pretzel twig—under
The old steam radiator against
The old wall that I see while on my knees
Strengthening my core
With Cat-Camels and Bird dogs and
Prone press-ups—that I wonder about.
 
I wonder why after all these weeks of PT
I haven’t swept it away.
I wonder why the mice aren’t interested,
And wonder what interests the mice
in my house,
Why the mice might no longer be interested in my house.

I wonder but I don’t question
Because I know the answers.
The dead pretzel embodies
the friends I haven’t let go of,
the friends I wish were dead, too.
The mice are no longer interested

In me, my core, my counters, my traps,
My fears, my broken house, my floods,
My pipes, my doorbell, my linoleum,
My waking at four a.m., my late mother.
They mock my weakening self,
My vanishing self, my birddog impressions,

My blood pressure, my contact lenses,
My bumps, my scabs, my aching back.
The mice are mocking me, laying low,
Waiting. The pretzel’s not going anywhere.
The mice – out there somewhere,
Eternal mice--will wait me out.