The Mouse

Once there came a sound so teeny, while I slurped my clam linguini,

O’er an inane show on Hulu, since I’d finished 30 Rock,

While I sat there, finally resting from the traffic jam so testing

Of my patience, at last nesting in my bed, at sev’n o’clock,

Thump! It sounded faint then silent from downstairs at sev’n o’clock.

T’was a mousetrap – not a shock.

For, you see, we’d caught eleven, sent them all to mousey heaven,

Started marking each one’s conquer on the wall with colored chalk.

Now with noodles in my belly, pausing laptop – slash – the telly,

With a heart like Machiavelli, I dumped the trap and took no stock.

It was one like all the others, causing me to take no stock.

T’was a mouse corpse – not a shock.

On the wall I made a tally, record of the sweet finale

Of the life I loathed by virtue of its birth from vermin stock.

Up the stairs with great elation, I returned in celebration,

To my bed, that sweet location, where I could watch, like a hawk

Sitcoms that I will not mention, watch those sitcoms like a hawk.

Fine, it’s New Girl – such a shock.

Well before the half hour’s closing, came a sound not so imposing,

Just that old familiar thump, without a squeak or scratch or squawk.

Planning to mark one more vict’ry, I found something contradict’ry

When I peered upon the body ‘round which plastic jaws did lock,

For I saw they pinched his hind parts. Not his neck did those jaws lock.

Boy, was I in for a shock.

Could it truly be, I wondered, that these plastic jaws had blundered?

Had they failed, the breath of life from this poor rodent’s lungs, to knock?

Once released, the mouse was squirming, all my dreaded fears confirming.

Ne’er a scene was less affirming, and my thoughts it still does stalk.

Paraplegic mouse now scooting – yes, that scene my thoughts does stalk.

He was living – what a shock.

Trying then to end the drama, and to mitigate the trauma

That would surely haunt me if I did no more than stand and gawk,

I was chasing him and pinching with the trap as he was inching

T’ward the stove. We both were flinching, and his path I failed to block.

‘Neath the stove he made his exit. Yes, his path I failed to block.

Poor mouse – he had quite a shock.

I had failed to end his anguish. In my mind the sound does languish,

Of his faint and final cry, so small and yet so hard to block.

Now I know he surely suffered, dying slowly, pain unbuffered.

No relief to him was offered. He could barely even walk.

Now this memory I’ll carry, as through life I slowly walk.

One more thing I’ll fail to block.