"the dirt, you know? how can you not miss the dirt?
the grime of it, like one of those
expensive sugar rubs you can buy at a spa,
the way it climbs up your feet and into your shoes."
on streets named for states the little mice walk
and seek, and stray, and sin gently
against the racing-stripe background.
"the smell, too, so often urine, so often sweat,
because with all the life pressed together here
how can there not be a little excrement around the edges?"
on little mouse feet they rustle towards stairs,
or rumble towards alien doorways to seek a fight
or start a war, or ask someone for spare change.
"and the noise, all these cars, the buses
grumbling up the hill, especially on cathedral,
and the sirens of all the cops, they're all cops,
did you see the motorcade with all the cops?"
the whiskers twitch with single-mindedness
for a chance at food or employment,
the naked little tail belying irritation and impatience
with the whole system and its lack of cheese.
"but i think what i'd miss most
would be the display here, the show we put on,
how public everything can be and still no one
can tell you the whole story."