Of Mice And Men

I watch them wash up on the sandy shores,

one after another,

beached and,

stranded,

breach birthed and underhanded,

heart surgery deliverance,

tide drifters.

Are they dolphins or what are they ever, some kind of mouse?

They are not the dolphins that swim,

holy light and holy body,

remembering I am just, this,

make pretend pain of whiskered tail curmudeons scurrying for that piece of cheese;

a chip, a cracker, a nut, a thumb nail portion of crust left behind,

in all hope, 

to survive.

Are they some kind of mouse or what are they, dolphins?

For example,

I just, today, watched a pleasantly polite and unintimidated mouse

not threatening and unable to do harm,

hunt around my house,

finally, laying lonely in the middle of my kitchen floor, 

struggling to move.

It would not move,

dropped down, slow, back leg twitching, no more vigor,

no more pursuit of life,

or the want to discover.

I poored two tiny drops of water in the cap of the bottle,

then let them fall slowly into its mouth,

and, this rodent, eyes closed and harmless,

baffled and confused

slurped up the fluid as if,

a gift from,

an unknown mother,

a father, 

a sister, a brother,

one of its own;

a final betrothed in which its engagement to life

had become a sadly divorced moment.

It may matter,

or may not,

it meant something in that moment,

it meant nothing now,

as we only delay,

what we, and the others,

are trying to let go of.

We do not give up.

We fight for other things,

we fight for them,

we fight for ourselves.

Of mice and men,

it all comes down to one thing;

that dirty unwashed sock on the floor,

in which we might be lucky enough to find,

crawling up into,

to find that one last soft foot fallen reality,

embracing what we had hoped for,

like the baby we were born as,

hopefully.

Little things die

I get a little sad,

knowing you and me,

we are all next in line.

I cannot stop the death of anything,

I can only transform my own intentions,

one promonotory hallucination,

at a time,

with a beautiful vision,

to make the change,

more comfortable.

Little things kill,

I get a little glad,

knowing it just an illusion;

this experience.

That mouse I found, died.

I could chuck into my yard,

and let the birds have its way.

If I still had my cat,

it would rip it limb to limb, and gnaw on it, like a little toy.

But, no.

The mouse I found is you.

That mouse waiting to die, 

is me.

And, what should we want for our selves?

I found a lucky mouse,

because it found me.

I find lucky things,

so I can give them luck.

Isn't that the hope for all of us,

all things considered,

small or great.