Poem 1: Kills Mice

Scratching in the wall kept us
from sleeping in our own bed
last night. I stood on a ladder,
wearing black gloves, peering
into the attic with a flashlight.
Wee timrous I, I'd called our friend
the squirrel guy. He said set traps.
So I did: black plastic jaws
set open with a dab of peanut butter.
Up in the attic, among the blown insulation,
there are artifacts from previous owners:
a humidifier in its box, wooden sides
of a bassinette and a box of Def-Con
("Kills mice," it says, matter-of-factly).
Last night, frustrated, standing on the bed,
I plotted tearing out drywall
to get at the noise, to stop it.
But this seems more sensible.
It was Halloween. We slept by the fireplace,
warming our toes. Today, our daughter
dressed up again in her giraffe costume.