“Like Little White Mice” by Evan Goetz

the raindrops scurry
across the hood of my
car. The lines in the road
are forgotten apparitions, fading
away into a faint nothingness. Lightning
replaces streetlights, sitting in their place
like petrified trees spawned
from the sun. The rain crawls
up the windshield, leaving unorganized trails
for the wipers to erase. A tiny crack

in the top of the windshield gives
way to a stream of whiskered creatures
running amuck on the underside
of the roof. They plop onto my shoulders
with wet feet, leaving cold patches with
each step. One of the mice
drops onto my nose, leaning over the edge
of it but clinging on so tightly. I corral
him in my hand to let him explore the creases
and lines of my palm.

Like a new day
rising, headlights blind me and jumpstart
my reflexes, turning my stomach
into kneaded dough. My eyes train to the road
once more after swerving back
on track. The mouse I held and the ones
on my shoulders have vanished, but I still
feel the damp remnants of their excitement
sinking into my skin.


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