A Tiny Pink Leg - Nov 24 2022

 

A Tiny Pink Leg

Nov 24 2022

Peanut butter for bait.

Strategically placed.

Checked daily.

But the traps just gather dust.

The mice

have either hunkered down for winter

or already succumbed

to the heat-seeking cold.

Life is hard

so far down the food chain

scrabbling for survival.

So the golden promise

of the sweet nutritious bait

seems especially cruel.

The luck, fate, contingency

that rule us all.

A slow death by cold,

small bodies

hearts stopped

frozen hard.

Or by guillotine;

quick and painless

    . . .  I can only hope.

But how to know?

The time I heard a faint rasping sound;

a trap, dragged across the floor,

a tiny pink leg

firmly snagged.

The high pitched squeaks

froze my heart,

such terrible guilt

to inflict such suffering.

Is this what it's like

to be a god,

conflicted between

the instrument of cruelty

and overrun by mice?

Conflicted

because I am not virtuous enough

to be the mindful Buddhist

who refuses to kill

even a fly.

Nor calculating enough

to go about it instrumentally,

rationalizing

about the greatest good

for the greatest number.

And hardly heartless enough

to trap mice

and feel fully justified,

disposing of them

like so much trash.