Vicki Wilson

A mouse left droppings all over

the cabinet

and I knelt on linoleum, first

vacuuming, then wiping the shelf

with bleach

humming. I was humming.

It wasn’t so much that I enjoyed the work,

it was more like what I thought when

I found the broken glass

and a piece of a cherry taillight

in the road this morning

in front of our house—

I hadn’t known

there had been a car accident

last night, I was distracted,

but had I,

I still would’ve only thought of you

in my bed,

just like I thought of you

when I saw

the pieces of car at my feet

when I ambled to the mailbox.

You see what I mean?

Cleaning up after the mouse

was just like all that,

and like making the coffee and

drawing the curtains

and taking the dog out,

because I thought of you.

Vicki Wilson is a freelance writer who lives in Clinton, New York, with her husband and 2-year-old son. Her poetry has appeared most recently in Literary Mama and The Southampton Review. She also writes fiction and plays.

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