The Mice Are Winning

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This morning, as is my habit, I check the two mousetraps on the floor of the back seat.  Alas, another mouse had succumbed to the temptation of peanut butter and lay stiff with its head caught in the trap. 

I do not enjoy being the murderer of living creatures, especially cute, furry ones.  However, mice living in my car create a danger of chewed wires, jammed vents, and expensive mechanic bills.  I’ve been at war with the rodents since last fall.

By the time I figured out why I couldn’t turn the dial on the air vent control, mice had built nests behind the instrument panel.  They’d chewed holes in the canvas attached to the underside of the hood and built homes in there as well. 

At the garage, mechanic Steve shook his head at the damage.  When he and his assistant pulled off the canvas, three mice bailed out onto the cement floor and skittered away.

The canvas was too damaged and tempting, so the men removed it entirely.  Then they cleaned the debris out from behind the instrument panel.

When I asked Steve how to prevent another infestation, he shook his head and shrugged.  “Some folks say that peppermint spray helps.”

I duly bought a peppermint rodent spray that claims to be harmless to people.  I sprayed everything: the motor, the floor, the edges of the carpet, under the seats.  A few days later, I found mouse droppings again.

I went to the hardware store and perused their anti-rodent offerings.  I shied away from the blue blocks of poison because I didn’t want dead mice rotting somewhere in my car.  Finally, I went traditional and bought four of the old-fashioned wooden killer traps.  These worked.  I caught four mice.  But setting the traps was so fiddly and painful—I kept snapping my fingers—that I returned to the store to look for alternatives.

I found some balsam fir pellets that supposedly deter rodents.  I put those under the seats.  I bought an electric trap, and two plastic snap traps.  I baited those with peanut butter.  So far I’ve caught another six mice with the plastic traps—that’s ten total and counting. 

To add to my mouse misery, I have mice in the house.  This morning I found droppings in the bathroom cabinet.  Never mind that I have a beautiful, silver Bengal cat who is not doing his job!  In fact, he actually brings mice in through his cat door and then plays with them until they scurry under the baseboard heater and down the pipes to the basement. 

The basement is where all the mice congregate and have their meetings.  They give each other tips on how to avoid the cat, and where the best pickings are in the kitchen and pantry. 

People continue to offer remedies to me.  One person said to close the air vents in the car.  That made sense but it didn’t work. The latest idea was cinnamon bark.  My guess is that it will work as well as peppermint spray, or that the mice will develop a taste for cinnamon.

Any suggestions?

Layover

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A squadron of grackles descends

early this morning, clatter and squawk

iridescent purple-black travelers

pick through the dead leaves

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toss with aimless abandon

snatch up bug or seed or centipede

chase away subordinates

from their grackle snacks

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A sudden whoosh flings

wings to the trees

dark brush strokes on stark branches

leave the leafy lawn fluffed

massaged pleasure sighs

in the thin spring light

Alex 6

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Alex is sitting on a bench in the small bus station.  A fluorescent light flickers in the fixture above his head.  It is 3 a.m. and he’s waiting for daylight.  In four hours he’ll be able to get some coffee somewhere.  For now, he’s waits. 

He’s got his iPhone plugged into an outlet.  Even if it was charged, he couldn’t call anyone.  Certainly not Gram or his father.  They’d only yell at him for getting kicked out of the Hostel.  He did think about calling, and he weighed the options for several minutes.  His dad would just add this fuck-up to the long list he keeps of all Alex’s fuck-ups, going way back to high school.  Alex hears the Interlocutor’s voice calling him to confess.  He decides not to acknowledge him.  Instead he lights the remains of a cigarette he found in the bus station’s ashtray. 

The smokes keep his dreams in their place.  That’s why he was smoking in the Hostel’s kitchen.  The dream of the black corks coming at him to stop his breath was doing that throbbing thing.  Alex had to smoke or be suffocated.  He knew he’d be locked out if he stepped outside to smoke, so he opened a window and sat by it, blowing the smoke out carefully. 

            He got caught.  Someone saw him and called the manager, an Algerian guy with a really scary face.  Alex had to pack up all his stuff. He dragged the bags down the street to the bus station.  It was only after he got there that he realized he’d left his food in the fridge.  Maybe he can pick it up in the morning.

            He’s hungry now, but he’s used to being hungry.  In the City, at his mom’s, there was hardly ever anything to eat.  Sometimes she’d make some nasty bean concoction.  After he lost his SSDI, Alex had to guilt trip his mom to get a little cash for a sandwich.  And he’d have to listen to her go on about how she couldn’t afford to support him and he had to get back to handing out fliers so he’d make some money.

            Alex looks out the window to the edge of the parking lot.  He sees a small moving shape.  It’s the fox again.  She’s never very far away, but she usually stays in the shadows, like this.  She is after his liver and Alex has to be constantly vigilant when he’s outdoors in the nighttime.  Once he fell asleep in the park after smoking some really strong weed.  It was in the summer.  He fell asleep on the grass.  The fox came so close he could hear her panting.  She tried to bite his rib cage but he rolled away and she just got his shirt with her teeth.  He sat up and yelled and slapped at her snout.  She ran back into the trees.  Alex’s friends woke up and they were scared.  Scared of Alex, not the fox.

Winter Birds

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The eagle holds lightning in its talons

Pointed shadow on bare earth

Eyes pierce the distance

Splits sky to rolling river

Beak breaks bones

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Tail of feathers rusty red

She is the hawk,

Speckled breast white and brown

She wears the queen’s crown

Her throne the tallest pine

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The sentinel jay of blue

Ornery as a pincushion

Testifying in the woods

Always first in line

Color proud, oh so loud

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Miss Nuthatch comes knocking

Upside-down grayling

In her Sunday best

Black cap, white bib,

Used to be a nun

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Fussy chickadee

Jaunty black beret

Speaks French with its mouth full

Complains to the chef

Too much millet, more peanuts!

Spectrum Service?

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This past January, my home internet bill was $49.98.  In February it was $73.40.   “That’s a big hike,” I thought, so I logged in to my account.  My account page online wasn’t informative, so I opted to have a chat.  I got someone named Frank. Here is what I recall of the text conversation after the ID check-in:

Me: So, Frank, why has my bill gone up $24?

Frank: Let me look it up. (pause) You had a promotion that gave you a discount of $30, but it expired. 

Me: I’m a senior, and I’m trying to reduce my expenses.  Is there any way you can lower my bill?

Frank: (explanation about my current equipment that I don’t understand)  Do you have wi-fi?

Me: I don’t know.  I thought I did.

Frank: Our records show that you only have our modem.  Do you have a router, too? It’s a tower with a light.

Me: I don’t know. (I go look).  There’s a small thing with blinking green lights and a tower thing with a blue light.

Frank:  That’s our router.  It’s not on your service.  I need the serial number to add it to your account.

(I take a photo of the serial number with my iPhone and type it into the chat. Please note: I’m not totally technologically ignorant.)

Me: Are there any new promotions that could lower my bill?

Frank: No. But the router will add $5 a month to your account.

Me: Do you realize how hilariously aggravating this is?  I called because my bill went up and now it’s going to be even higher?

Frank: blah blah…policies…blah blah

Me: I know you’re not personally responsible for this, but it is totally absurd.

Frank: Is there anything else I can help you with?

Me: (      )

P.S.  My Spectrum bill is now $80.

Ponder

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Are you a keeper of the light?

Do you cradle a candle

fingers glowing

sheltering the flame?

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Are you a keeper of the peace?

Do you cleave to the center

feet balanced

plumes unruffled?

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Are you a keeper of love?

Do you offer a hand to another

as an equal

a sister or brother?

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Are you a keeper of your soul?

Do you guard it like a sentry,

only allowing goodness

to pass through?

God’s Flute

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is what I want to be

a hollow bamboo tube

with holes carefully placed

burnished by lifetimes

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a pipe that channels

the eternal breath of Spirit

whose holes release

the wind of sacred song

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Oh, my beloved,

play your tune through me

breath of love and light

holy golden melody

Alex V

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Alex has a secret.  Sometimes he has a special power.  He can use his eyes in a certain way and the girl he wants to fuck just slides toward him.  The power gives Alex just the right words to say, and the golden rays shine out of his eyes.  The power, when he has it, can illuminate the girl’s aura.  It makes her glow and vibrate in a rainbow halo. 

            The problem with the power is that Alex can’t control it.  He’s been working on this for a few years now.  He knows that beer dulls the power but weed enhances it.  He figures that’s why the Rastafarians use ganja as a religious rite.  They must have a link to the same power.  He’s read a lot about the Rastas, trying to suss out more but the answers he wanted weren’t there.

            The power affects his speech and his eyes.  When he has it, he can be so incredibly deep and eloquent that he astounds himself.  Alex knows he’s intelligent.  When he has the power, he’s brilliant.  Like the time he was explaining the five levels of his dreams to Lisa and her friend Sandra.  The way they looked at him, with such wide-eyed awe.  He knocked their socks off.

            Alex can feel the power when it comes on.  It’s like a warm humming in his root chakra.  At first he thought it was the kundalini energy awakening.  He researched kundalini and decided that this power wasn’t the vital energy the Indian sages talked about.  It was something different.  Alex’s current theory is that he’s an Indigo child, part of a new, more evolved race on Earth.

Steps

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I’ve met two roads

in woods and fields

and concrete paths diverging

A choice of two,

obscured by fog

may end in night submerging

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One might be a stony way

slippery leaves a peril

or a flatter, smooth sashay

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Frost ignored,

it’s taken decades

to ponder forks that challenge

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With calm regard,

admit that easy roads

can disappoint or damage

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Learn the thinly marked

with roots and rubble

are usually worth the trouble