Friday, July 01, 2005
So we finally caught the little big-eared mice (2) and released them in a not-too-nearby park, near the little zoo. Three days now, and a tiny little starved baby mouse is found in the basement, near the play area. I put it in a shoe box with some water and some milk, but I think it is probably already dead.
Lonely.
Apropos that (or maybe propos, I can't tell), here's a poem by my dad's wife's father, Bob Ghiradella.
Charles Olson at Tea
--for Michael Rumaker (who told me this story and swore it is true)
Trying to amend
any bad
impressions,
the poet chats with
his guest,
the local minister.
Suddenly, his
daughter appears
on the scene,
age 3,
carrying something,
something
feathered and broken.
"What have we here?"
the minister
inquires.
"Bird," she replies,
wiping a cheek,
"the fucking owl
got it."
Lonely.
Apropos that (or maybe propos, I can't tell), here's a poem by my dad's wife's father, Bob Ghiradella.
Charles Olson at Tea
--for Michael Rumaker (who told me this story and swore it is true)
Trying to amend
any bad
impressions,
the poet chats with
his guest,
the local minister.
Suddenly, his
daughter appears
on the scene,
age 3,
carrying something,
something
feathered and broken.
"What have we here?"
the minister
inquires.
"Bird," she replies,
wiping a cheek,
"the fucking owl
got it."
