Thoughts from a Thinking Girl

Why not believe that the mouse fell in love with him?

That despite the pull of this ardor, he exiled her

for making too much noise, gnawing on the bookcases.

That the very same mouse found its way back to the soft-haired, soft-souled

man who dances in a bare rental apartment, sings Creedence .

That once again the little love-drunk mouse scurried and gnawed, a scratchy sound

that kept the writer awake, made him fear for his books.

That once again he released her, at the feet of the bronze Quixote,

yet this time she hasn’t returned, his eyes whisper in tender lament.

Why not give up the doomed, frantic seeking that ensures we will go astray?

Let go the urge to fill the insatiable craving lodged in the gut, grabbing and clawing,

gnawing old pages of unread books, scurrying to the edge then turning back,

keeping the whole damned house awake with our tedious search that only leads

to deception, despair, exile.

Why not find what is there, welcome what comes to meet us?

Follow the unknown path, wander where we are led.

Be found, over and over again:

mouse and lover, mother and child, word and page.