I peer through the windshield
in the sallow light of evening.
Yards are immaculate, the street
is as clean as my mother's kitchen
floor. A small mouse hurries
to cross my path, incongruous
in the upscale neighborhood,
stretching its sense of democracy.
He's claimed his right to upward
mobility among the correct
flower beds, wicker rockers
on sprawling porches, tasteful
door decorations. Where he's headed
I can only wonder, but his claim
to domestic cooperation causes
me to break and give him time
to negotiate zoned living. Death
on a public street would be an awful
end to his decision, his small motion.