A Mole Changes His Spots

Painting by Russell Diekerson



A Mole Changes His Spots

Two moles live in a hole behind my house,
and they call me everyday to complain
about the soil, the girl at Wendy's
who was rude, lawnmowers.

They say, "You never come to our hole anymore.
We used to watch movies and dig.
Ever since you got that house
you've changed." And I don't know what to say.

I've tried befriending hawks, snakes. I've tried
explaining hygiene. I've tried paving the yard over,

but they dig right through and say,
"Oh, we don't play basketball,
and you never used to.
You've changed."

I try to explain that this isn't fur
on my stomach,
it's hair, these aren't claws, they're nails.

They say, "You never used to watch C-Span."
I say, "Maybe if you had jobs, you'd understand.

A person has to compete in the world economy,
a person has to earn his place.
"There's no work for moles," they say.
"Come over and dig with us." And I say,
"Maybe later."

The next day, they're at my door.
"Can I have a Coke?"
They say, and I say,
"Caffeine's bad for you, drink water."
They say, "What's on TV?" And I say,
"Bill O'Reilly is on."
They say, "Where's the dirt? Let's dig."
And I say, "There's no dirt here."
And they look at me
like I've eaten all the worms in the world
and say, "You've changed."

So I packed my life into boxes, catalogued
my Gore Vidal, Noam Chomsky,
Arsenio Hall's biography,

my 73 TVs, (one for every square inch of
my bathroom), my complete collection
of Jerry Clower comedy cassettes,
except for Live At the Grand Old Oprey,

which I suddenly found myself jumping
up and down upon in a fit of ennui.
I heard a knock at my door,
and thinking it's the movers,

I answered. But it was the moles
and they were wearing pants.


CL Bledsoe

Posted over on Word Riot