Little Mouse (Stuff), by Bill Griffin

Bill Griffin

I own a book I’ve never read. OK
OK, a couple dozen. More. (And not all
of them poetry, either.) Will I ever really
excavate the pile beside my bed? and meanwhile
half dot com keeps calling to me.

On the shelf a CD gathers dust
unopened (Die Fledermaus): I meant
to sneak it into your stocking, but you
have yet to listen to the birthday’s,
mother’s day’s, etc. Our rooms are full

of cetera, those other things – did I think
I could redeem my self by filling shelves?
What is the other that this stuff replaces?
Could I survive a week without buying
anything but bread and milk?

I’m afraid to ask it: What would Jesus
buy? In his hands he cups
a little mouse, squats beside a soup can over
a fire of twigs to brew wild beebalm tea,
another way of turning water into wine.

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