Do They Sleep?

Sometimes, especially with a whimsical piece, any explanation is too much, so I'll spare you the details of my ordeal by squirrels, the pain and humiliation I've suffered at their hands (er, paws), the ongoing battle of wills, my refusal to concede that their ancestors were here in this country before mine ... all those things which went into the making of this poem.

If they were to write poetry ... perhaps it would keep them out of mischief for brief interludes, at least ... I suppose it would be as accusatory of me as this is of them.

I'm willing to settle for an uneasy truce. But are they? This one was originally published in Capper's:

DO THEY SLEEP?

I've seen 'em

nodding off

on a quiet limb

during the day,

but when do

pesky squirrels

really sleep?

And where?

Maybe they go

to little motels,

or perhaps they

go zipping off

to the suburbs,

where they plot

new mischiefs

on tiny laptops.

Some nights,

when the wind

sits and traffic

thins, I think

I see the glow

from their tiny

flickering

screens, hear

them chuckling

to themselves,

and I lie there ...

awake, wondering.

© 1998

***

Today's word: chuckling

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

I got a good chuckle out of your account of your Dad's warfare with the local squirrel gang, Vicki ... and I especially liked the ending: In the depths of winter, he fed them. I don't always go that far ... they seem to find enough pizza scraps, bagels, etc., on their own to keep the party going ... but I have long since called a truce with them ... one-sided though it is.