It was the poker that did it.
Three times smashed on the head,
three perfect mouse outlines
bent into the handle
before he could escape into
the sanctuary of the skirting board.
Jerry holes up behind his wall,
recovering his breath,
thinks about simpler times
when he was a pup,
didn’t have to forage for scraps,
pursued by a psychopathic cat.
Meanwhile, in Burlington, Vermont,
Jerry Greenfield sighs,
adds a flick to the Newton’s cradle
clicking on his desk.
Click, click, tick, tick,
click, click, tick, tick.
He thinks about the seventies,
when he and Ben were fuelled by youth,
when ice cream was exciting,
before he grew weary
of brokers and boardrooms,
jaded by the corporate world.
The mouse turns to Twitter, types,
I’m tired of this crap,
then scrolls down the feed,
where someone has retweeted
a post from Greenfield
saying the exact same thing.
He replies: Ha, just said the same
and puts down his phone.
Eight minutes later
a notification bleeps.
Greenfield has replied.
Maybe we should swap?
Haha, types the mouse, but
Greenfield writes, I’m serious,
you come here to Burlington,
be the new Jerry,
and I’ll take your place.
Both of us can make a new start.
Two days later, Greenfield
takes a plane down south,
meets the mouse at the airport.
They exchange instructions,
documents, keys,
wish each other well.
The mouse strides proudly,
possessions tied in a napkin
dangled on the end of a chopstick.
He stows himself away in
some unsuspecting luggage,
is soon on his way to Vermont.
Greenfield takes a taxi
to the address he’s been given,
a quaint little place
in smalltown suburbia,
trimmed lawn and portico,
his new dream home.
In Burlington, the mouse
heads straight to the office,
scrambles up the executive chair,
lies back on luxurious leather.
The desk is much too high.
He’ll need to get it lowered.
Within days, he’s settled in,
signing off purchase orders,
attending board meetings,
carrying the mouse-sized briefcase
he’s had specially made.
His PA has sorted the desk.
Greenfield isn’t slipping into
his new life so easily.
He hadn’t fully thought about
the life of a mouse,
about the practical problems
of living in a wall cavity.
The cat doesn’t help,
eyeing him suspiciously,
brandishing a shovel,
just in case he comes near
the steaming roast chicken
perched on the kitchen counter.
It does look delicious.
In Vermont he could have chicken
any time he wanted,
or whatever else he chose.
He craves a turkey sandwich.
It’s funny what you miss.
When the mouse gets the text,
he’s in the back of a limo
on the way to his mansion.
He laughs as he reads it:
This isn’t working out.
I think we should go back.
The mouse disagrees.
He’s embracing the change.
It’s not just the money,
the house, the champagne,
it’s the power – a taste that
he’s never known before.
He doesn’t reply,
loads the Forbes website,
checks the latest market news.
Maybe he needs to make some cuts.
The VP of Sales doesn’t
seem to share his vision.
He ponders the viability
of a cheese-flavoured ice cream,
while miles away, the mouseman
who used to be Jerry Greenfield
nibbles on a discarded crust,
staring at his silent phone.