A field mouse nibbles from a coconut
intended for sparrows. He's among the bramble,
intimate claws and whiskers, glazed fur.
A hush in his movement, a stillness.
Can he see me at the sink
in my sloppy sweater, slippers and rubber-gloves?
I don't crave company,
want nothing to do with him.
Hours later, he's still here.
I fix on his swollen cheeks, imagine a house invasion –
droppings, gnawed wires, shredded books –
a whole family of mice.
I chase him into the hedge.
He peeps out at me with burnt-brown eyes,
disappears, then returns to sniff
at the now empty space.
Next day, I catch my savage face in the glass,
resurrect the coconut,
shut my ears to the squabbling sparrows,
await the mouse.
He doesn't come to feed
or to watch me wash the dishes.
I miss what we had, each of us alone
on our different sides of the window.