The No-ones of the Old House

The uncle’s son who pours 
water on the head of anyone 
passing below comes downstairs 
to fight about the right of the window.

The weather reported by the birds
schedules a shower soon. I tell him
that he may take some rest. 

The birds deliver some news about 
the mice rotting in our basement.
Our noses already know the same.

I often dream about my mother reborn
as a mouse seeking for happiness 
one grain at a time.

“Please leave.” I tell the words. “Rest.”
I tell the hands to know the pleasure 
of pouring darkness on the innocent.

Rain calls my umbrella. I have nowhere 
to go but the umbrella needs a bath,
and I have been its negligent guardian.

.

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