The Mouse

My computer had a little trouble waking up this morning ... I guess we're becoming more alike ... I say "a little trouble," but that translates as BIG TROUBLE for me.
I'm still struggling to understand the electric typewriter ... and, no, the first typewriter I used was not a wood-burning model ... it was a standard, mechanical ... clackety-clack ... sturdy, understandable typewriter.
When something got stuck, I could usually track down the problem and ... with the help of a paper clip or a brush ... could usually solve it.
Computers, though, are a different breed. I know nothing. Well, I do know that this one seems to be working now ... (how many times have I thought that, though, only to be wrong?) ... and if all goes well ...
But I digress.
What I started out to talk about was today's poem, based, as are most of mine, on the material at hand ... you know, tangible stuff ... things I understand ... at least sorta ...
Now that I think about it, though, it seems that this particular poem kind of tells its own story:

THE MOUSE
I slept serenely one blustery night

while a timorous sweet-toothed mouse
stole into my house, chewed a jagged
hole in the right-hand pocket of my
old blue robe and took a foil-wrapped
chocolate by surprise.

Discovering the theft, I, Superior
Creature I, smiled at such waste
when my poor pocket was open
all the time.

But who has dined on prized chocolate?
And who stands here holding crumpled
foil while a finger waggles foolishly
from a hole?

© 1998

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: timorous
Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Good luck, Magran, in that HUGE mouse war ... as you may recall, I grew up in the country, and we expected an annual invasion as the nights grew colder ... so did the cats (they thought the mice were delicious), until they'd had their fill ... and realized that they were vastly outnumbered. And you're right, having mice is like ... well, like no fun at all.