We hear it at night,
a tiny pencil scratching
the lease we never signed.

We named them both
after our landlords.
It seemed only fair.

In Monterey, Janice,
where the rooms were built, politely,
on the shifting sand dunes.

In the Midwest, Gretchen,
grandfathered into the garage wall.

Neither pays us rent.
It was always as such.

Both buildings went up
sometime in the late sixties—
the mice were coming.

What the wall holds
it has always held:
dust,
receipts,
winter,

the small republic
of teeth and insulation,
packed,
patient as cut peat.

Green-gloved,
I spray apple cider vinegar

again
along the baseboards.
The scratching stops.

For a moment
we imagine victory.

No amendments
to the lease
we never signed.