Flat Mouse

I was on my way home, crossing the Mission on Mission Street proper. The morning was young still and merchants were pushing and pulling carts on to the sidewalks. Words slinging from the inside of stores out to young workers propping up merchandise, like a game of ski ball. Shoes, socks and dresses. Mangoes, bananas and dried fish. Everything shimmers in the new morning light. I give credit to the men in rain boots washing down the side walks. Washing away the semen and vomit. I saw it all last night, but the morning light makes it seem so innocent.

It's too beautiful to take the bus, so I walk the two miles.

Next to a failed meter lay a flattened mouse. A flattened mouse. It's tiny pink feet and hands stretching out to the four corners of the world and it's skull listening to the earth rumble. It was as if he was hugging the concrete.

How does a mouse get flattened like that?

I'm not dead yet, as far as I can tell. But some times I feel that flat. Desperate, lost and out of air. Laying on the ground, searching for answers I may have dropped. Poor mouse. I hope he found something before he went out.