Mouse

The mouse is dead.

I know this because my shoe,

And the foot it contains,

And all the weight of my body,

Now rest upon the rodent’s head.

Poor creature, his slowness and hunger,

And the poison I made available to him,

Drove him out of hiding,

Out into the middle of the room

Where a clumsy poet,  mind elsewhere,  with squinting eyes and uncertain step,

Squashed  him.

The odds of our unintended meeting are difficult to assess.

His  desperation is impossible to guess.

Looking with pity at calico  fur, motionless feet, 

Delicate whiskers, tiny eyes no longer sparkling,

I wonder who or what will step on me,

And when….

© George Phillips, 2016

Mouse, one month old
Picture uploaded by Roger McLassus
on Wikimedia Commons