Provisions

I call him Mr. Whiskers, and this morning
I saw him when I opened the door.
In the dim spare room, all the shapes
of flour sacks and sorghum jars,
the harrow that busted last summer,
clumped up and looked
like a dark and smoky ghost,
with two shiny eyes that stared at me
before he scrabbled away.

When I told Mama, her mouth pressed into a line.
She wishes the white tom would get him,
but the rat is big and that cat is kind of scrawny—
he would have a better chance
if he could sneak inside, too—
if he could eat our corn.