Floss and Carrots

I keep forgetting we need floss and baby carrots

Until I brush my teeth or fix my husband’s lunch.

Starting a list, I add shampoo and dog food.

I am on a quest to find food the dog likes.

Rumbling in the stove drawer, a mouse tries to

Take poisonous bait but must be too large for my trap.

The dog and I hear it late while others sleep,

But the food is untouched and the trap mouse-less

In the morning. “Better mouse trap,” I write on my paper

as the dog lifts his head, ears perked,

And fixes his gaze on the stove.

Rain rat-a-tats on the roof of this tiny, old cottage

And I think it will help bring sleep.

“I don’t buy those because I know where they come from,”

An old lady said the last time I put baby carrots in my cart.

A barred owl hoots, hauntingly, outside the kitchen window.

“It is their mating season,” a neighbor had mentioned to me

As we spoke, briefly, while I walked Crash.

The scent of a burning pineapple-mango candle begins to overwhelm me.

As I blow it out, Crash and I hear fluttering,

Low, against the outer wall behind the stove.

And I scratch “better mouse trap” off my list.