‘Black rice’ in the cup-holders.
Sunflower seeds in the trunk.
Dog-food in the air-filters.
That week  my car just stunk.

The  Jiffie Lube guy confirmed it
in his greased, big-fingered hand—
A little strip of beef jerky
‘bout as long as a rubber-band.

He called it a ‘rolling nursery’
For that mummified baby mouse.
Must’ve been a cold winter.
Probably came from the house.

I thought of glue-poison-snap traps,
And a four-wheeled mausoleum,
Gnawed through seat-belt straps,
A wife and the chances she’d see ‘em.

I imagined that with mice in my car
I’d never be driving alone.
And no matter how near or how far,
At least some of us would already be home.

 So I stopped at the super-sized K-Mart,
Bought three different types of bird seed.
And wondered—unloading the cart—
How many  more car-seats  I’d need.

This pen is refillable—
a black-lacquered classic—
engraved with a name quite like mine,
I would think.

That pen is a single use
of gnaw-backed plastic
hemorrhaging the last of its clotted blue ink.

Both are quite old.
Neither is newer.
Yet here I am,
dropping one down the sewer.