Little one, yes, you,
skittering ever so lightly
across my bare foot,
out of the darkness
and over the threshold:
your life / my life,
your wild / my kitchen.  

I think, cat! oh rat! but no,
little baby possum, it’s you,
innocent among innocents,
blinded by light, quick-glancing
over your slight shoulder,
red-rimmed eyes in a mask
of white, pink-lipped snout,
open, panting, oh, oh, oh!

Finally, my husband and I
(and yes, I called for backup)
find you tight in a corner,
eyes ever-fixed on mine. I fancy
I might whisper you into calmness,
softly clicking, it’s okay, little one,
it’s okay, but you are not a believer and
it’s way past my bedtime,
so like it or not, and none of us do,
out comes the broom.

We barricade all escape routes but one,
and with a well-timed push to the right,      
to the left, now behind: Shoo, possum, shoo!
you do, into the unlit night.