The Quality of Mercy

Oh god, nothing arty
please, tonight--
no more pseudo-buddhist
musings, no more

gibbering meandering
metaphysical bullshit,
and don't even think
about rhyming this time.

You're shot. You're done.
It's past sunset of a long gone day
that started well prior to dawn,
right about when you found

the pinyon mouse had taken the bait
and gotten locked inside
the little black trap
you thought was merciful

because, instead of snapping
its back in one blackout crack,
it just scooped the poor devil
into a hopeless cell and held it

until you carted it out into the rain
and wind, a few thousand or so
mouse lengths from the house,
and dumped it out

tail first, pathetic fur
matted with its own piss,
giant ears twitching,
into the juniper duff.

It gave you one, deep,
black-eyed, uncomprehending
look, and then reflexes took over,
and it took off into the scrub.