Life

a pronounced thwack later — was there a scream? — then silence.

how strange the electrons, with any size of violence.

who was he, this little not-moving whiskered one, with front limbs no longer a-skittering?

did he have pups to feed, a nagging wife at home, that caused him to scramble after whatever we were littering?

and who was i to end his little life, in trap so minimalistic, but hammer just right sized for his little head?

only moments ago, i lusted strongly for the end of those percussions his little nails made from under my bed.

and now, now. . ., now i just wished he could live another day, to steal our food, and keep his little chest moving up and down just a tiny bit longer