Ode to a House Mouse

Oh, fearless Mus Musculus, you are a muse.
You've no manners like your brethren, 
the field mouse, content in a hole 
in the ground, who would rather stick to seed 
and grass, rather not risk the resident cat.
Not you, wee rodent –
you sneak up under the dining table 
while we eat. Your nose knows 
garlic and tomato and you've no 
patience to wait until we slumber; 
to search for careless scraps.

We're long past the 1950s housewife, 
up on a three-legged stool, afraid 
you've unpacked your hobo sack 
of viruses and bacteria. No, today you 
lean your weight back on hind legs 
like a dog patient at my feet, wide-eyed, 
snuffling the air above and I succumb 
to your busy whiskers –
toss a speck of spaghetti. I expect you 
to gobble the strand of dough but instead 
your careful tongue licks off only the sauce 
and casts the rest aside. 

I implore you, my light-footed rodent, 
who carefully cleaned peanut butter 
from a once-baited trap without 
so much as a snap – tell me:
when did you acquire such discerning taste?