I am losing the war of
natural aggression; the urban
forest creatures are kicking
my Snow White ass.

The cat brings tiny
perfect-toy-looking mice,
half alive, passive-aggressive
offerings of
sympathy for my poor
hunting skills.

The winter attic
squirrels emerged in
spring with their
babies, abandoning
nest when
May heated up, only to
squat on the roof of
the garage, using the
electric wire and
fence-lines as their
tightropes to start
turf wars, chitter-taunting
each other
in the treetops.

The chipmunks
chase and scatter the
back patio while
the cat attempts to
tunnel out the
glass back door.

It will be the
ants that do me in.
The organized
labour party rises up
from the kitchen floor
vent each morning, 
seeking abandoned cat
kibbles and sticky trash.
I have resorted to
placing the cat dish on the
dining table which
is the sleeping throne of his
choosing anyway.

When friends come over I
will move it, wipe the table down,
and of course
scold him when
he jumps up there, as if
scandalized by this new
level of audacity, as if I have
everything in hand, but
we will both know
the truth.