My landlady is ranting
about the squirrels,
how they dig up all her flowers,
calling them tree rats,
that all of us would hate them
if it weren’t for their tails,
how bushy they are,
their skill at being cute,
adorable, the way
in which they nibble.
I try to give them credit:
that they don’t crawl
out from the sewers,
pillage our provisions,
leave dark droppings on our floor.
Name a plague traced back
to squirrels,
the time they carried fleas,
stowed away
on Spanish galleons,
kindled contamination.
In addendum
I mention Willard,
its sequel in ’72,
remind that Ben goes hand-in-hand
with Michael Jackson, whose life
was a horror all its own.
Yet I still admit defeat,
that no one’s ever
crooned to a bounding
squirrel,
that it would never
top the charts,
be in a position
to redeem,
rain disdain
on those below
who curse its splendour.
Andreas Gripp
March 15, 2023
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