Category Archives: Overheard

Of Mice and Matches

SH-matchesI would not consider myself a big poetry fan, generally speaking. I have my favorites, however, and Billy Collins is one of them.

I was introduced to Colins when my husband and I heard the poet read his poem entitled “The Country” on the car radio once and we laughed so hard, we had to pull over.

We live in the country, of course, and there are mice here. But mice and matches? Hmmm.

You decide.

The Country

 

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time—

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?