Every spring he comes.
The infamous mole.
When dad spots the first
mound, our whole family
goes silent, and sometimes I
think I hear the “Psycho”
music playing.
He’ll clench his fists and
angrily walk to the garage.
Sometimes Benny and I
follow him and watch him
reach up to the top shelf and
grab the old rusted traps.
He’ll set them around the yard,
mumbling, “That outta do it.”
For the next week or so the
yard clears up like a growing
teenager’s face, and dad’s mood
is back to normal.
But then the second mound appears.
Dad’ll march out to his rickety old
truck that never seems to run,
kick it a few times, then hop in
and drive down to the hardware
store. When he walks in, everyone
knows why he’s there and almost
immediately, Phil greets him and
points him to aisle nine.
He’s tried seven different types of traps.
He’s concocted poisons and even
humbled himself enough once to Google
tips on “how to get rid of the darn beasts.”
This spring came and went with our
yard covered in polka dots.
He didn’t get him this time,
Maybe next year.
The infamous mole struck again.