I am not supposed to be writing poetry,
I am supposed to be turning up my nose
And taking revenge.
But where my nose is going
There is no air,
And revenge is not possible.
There is enough revenge already.
I wish it were spring again,
And even that the rain would come
And clean us up.
I need a wash.
I think a lot, and a wash
Would make me feel better.
I can hear mice
Coming out of the woodwork.
They live there in winter
And come out at night
Looking for food.
The cat eats them.
I suppose it is instinct.
I suppose there is a lot of instinct everywhere,
But that is no excuse.