Fred Aiken Writing

the little tapping noise
beating angst in the plaster walls,
causing all sorts of speculation 
as to what could be the cause of such
a wispy tap-tap-tip-toe-flitting in the walls,
though i have my suspicions,
though i have a right to be suspicious,
but speculation looks like lazy guessing
until i take a sledgehammer to the walls,
being careful not to hit anywhere near an electrical outlet,
and as i poke my nose, first, and then the rest of me, second,
through the looking hole,
i find a small family of mice
playing pictionary in their own living room,
wondering why i’m disturbing their privacy 
with my beating against their wall