Your adopted mice are hungry again.
They keep asking for Lottie.
Should I tell them she’s dead?
It’ll serve them right
For nibbling on my Chaucer, my Yeats.
They stare at me from the crack
In the floorboards, heads extended
To see my every move.
They hate me, I can tell from the red in their eyes.
I bet they laugh at me while sipping
Their evening tea.
They scurry across the room to spite me.
They know I’m helpless
A poor woman in a Parisian garret
Whose husband left her, whose daughter died.
You left for work, never came back.
Maybe I should kill the mice, yes, the perfect revenge.
I’ll go buy a trap from the Sunday Market,
Name it Lottie, they’ll be the best of friends.