GAME SHOW
By Darren Donohue
A late-night quiz –
the kind you watch when
you’ve given up on thinking.
A cat and a mouse
stand at podiums.
Their job: to guess
what each gadget does
as it rattles up a conveyor belt.
First up: a mousetrap.
Applause.
The host – a social media snake
in his mid-thirties,
skin of spray-tan and grin –
tells them to have a look,
not to be afraid to touch.
The cat gives it a paw,
the mouse circles,
sniffs the air
as if something invisible
has already happened.
“Be careful,” says the host.
Polite laughter.
Bell.
They scuttle back to their places.
Then he looks down the camera,
straight through me,
as if I’m next.
I check the room –
no podium, just a chair.
Still, I feel chosen.
“What do you think?” he asks the cat.
“It’s something for kitchens,”
the cat says.
“You put it on the floor.
It gathers dust.”
The audience laughs.
Then the mouse.
It trembles so hard
its outline blurs.
The host crouches,
all friendly menace.
“Come on,” he says,
“I need an answer.”
The mouse opens its mouth.
A small, perfect silence
spills out.
Its tongue presses the air
into shape – D...E...A…
and I know
the word it’s trying to form.
A flash – the cat pounces,
catches the mouse between its teeth, darts into the audience.
The host sheds his skin,
sliding from himself,
slick and bright beneath the lights,
he slithers after them.
Music swells. Applause.
Ad break.