Maybe Mice


Between the oak paneled ceiling
and the rusted steel roof
the mice have built a republic
in the insulation batts,
burrows and tunnels winding
throughout the fiberglass.
Velvet brown and midnight,
clouds for bellies, they skitter,
dig, and occasionally squeak
from one side of the cabin
to the other. What I can’t see
I imagine, and so I’ve invented
mice. Not squirrels, or raccoons,
or chipmunks, or (god forbid) rats,
but the tiny presence and collusion
of flat black eyes, whiskers finer
than corn silk, tiny paws pattering
their way unchallenged
through the dark. I imagine
a whole new city unfolding,
the architecture unparalleled,
above the oak paneled ceiling
I remain a tourist below.