The Phobia, or Channeling Orville Redenbacher—with cheese

Willard, there are rats in the basement

—1971

Ben, most people would turn you away

I don’t listen to a word they say

They don’t know you as I do

—Michael Jackson

There is no fear in love

—1 John 4:18

Mice are always

cuter out-of-doors.

The way they squeak

& squirm has always

given me the willies.

Why I’m watching Willard

I do not know. But Ben &

friends have shown me that

these rats would be much worse.

They’ll chew you to the marrow—

your wires in the wall as

though it’s licorice.

Ditto for the Wiley Wallaby

in your engine—

your Mustang ’72.

They’re piranhas

who’ve learned to crawl, claws

in place of fins. Unlike squirrels

they’ve absconded our endearment;

eschewed a fuzz-on-tails

which may have saved.

Teach me about the

line of love & hate.

Narrow like a whisker.

The space

between each tooth.

Love is a bath of water for

the birds. Leaving it in the

night since it’s the bats

who lap it up. Their wings

like fallen angels, the flip-

side of the finch. A rat in

hellish flight.

But maybe it’s the sky 

who knows them best.

It’s why we lift

our visage to the stars.

Why we think of heaven

in the plumes. You surely

didn’t think it

out of fright?

Not theirs—mine when I hear a

scratching in the gypsum,

never considering a drywall’s

simple itch, or the ghosts are

now so lonely they’ll

speak in the only

wretched language they have left.                               

Andreas Gripp

May 20, 2026

George Rose / Getty Images