Now where did I read that
mice and men have equal life-
span when measured in heartbeats?
Under the velveteen pulse of silky pelt
the last fistful race to their conclusion atop
the obscene raft of a plastic-cheese pedal
slammed, steel-sprung bow, one cocked claw
hind-legs akimbo and a splurge of jam used
as bait. Mingled in choices, this seemed somehow –
dare I say – cleaner? Death demands resolution
no matter how tiny or expected;
so what of those who crawl away
belly-cramped to die under
floorboards, loaded with poison
leaving occupiers unsure like children
who never see the full stop of a corpse
whose parents are missing presumed...
so they look out from the corners of eyes
those optimistic apertures half expecting
door handles to turn with unconscious hope
or, with regard to these mice – dread
the unmistakable scritching sound
of claws on carpet.
