The Night Piece

The lock up is on. Someone
cackles in the goose house
at the policy of monsters.
In the white kitchen I
jump up and rub my hands.
Never a footprint out
there on the moonlit snow.
Then I squint. Then I know.
Plenty of small manifestos
wherever the blue mice go.

Mop and mow. Someone blows his
nose at the goose on duty.
I wade into the next gloomy
instalment, hissing through
my teeth, searching in straw
and strategy and all that
...