I'm blurring
past those plywood-covered windows
and scraggly saplings
that died years ago,
but that no one cared enough about to replace.
And there's that scent I've been waiting for,
so sweet and beckoning
amidst the general bouquet of neglect,
the smell of so much left out to rot.
My steps are silent as the grave,
and I laugh at the thought,
because a grave is something I'll never have.
It doesn't hear me coming,
but still its pace quickens
--heavy feet clacking on gritty cement,
echoes shivering through alleys and streets—
my mouse knows the cat following
is more concrete than fear.
So closely I'm breathing
my cold breath
--just a comfortable habit—
down its neck,
darting to shadows when it's head turns.
.
The mouse scurries ahead
but this is a maze that only I know
in the dark.
Blinded by fear and shadows
it darts back and forth.
Indecision creeps through
like a dribble of snow
down its back.
I can smell the panic drawing near.
And now the prey is whispering:
"So close, so close,"
a little hymn that
(it hopes)
will hold the dark at bay until the safety of its hole.
But then feels the cold-wet wall at its back,
and realizes just how lost it was.
And here I am, closing in.
The mouse's whiskers quiver,
its nose raised, it scents the cat.
Eyes so wide and black with terror.
And I croon my own lullaby,
the sort that invites cold drafts to stay;
the sort winter nights sing:
"So far, so far"
So far.
