If you hear easy-peasy
one more time you’ll scream.
It won’t be the usual shriek
you give when you spot a mouse.
The way it squirms
beneath the fridge, squeezing
down its spine like
it’s made of memory foam—
its tail a cut elastic—
thinking it’s found a
shortcut to the crisper,
making you extra-queasy
at the thought.
We’ll leave not a single
leaf unturned
in the search for droppings.
I say they’re more likely
in the cavities of Swiss.
Like golf balls sunk at the mini-
putt. The one where we’re always
over par. Especially the 18th hole,
where it says a child
could score it in three:
easy peasy, lemon squeezy
that saying used to go,
causing you to grit your pitted teeth,
at its grating condescension,
its annoying , sing-song rhyme,
clench your throbbing fists,
as if ready to take on the
bully, one who stole your
lunch;
discarding your cheese in the
rubbish; your envisioning
a Ben-like rodent
who would soon make a meal
out of it—
one which was strenuously
wrought, your mother at the
foundry, wiping off her forehead
in the steam, working every shift
until she dropped.
Andreas Gripp
February 22, 2024
RF Image
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