by Joan Pond
I don’t miss your touch,
or the mouse you caught in your trap.
It was upside down and dead.
A grey puff of head under a wire.
You complained it ate the cheese,
and you’d have to re-load the trap.
It’s tiny pink hands,
as an aborted child holding on
for dear life.
You simply shucked it out the door.
I left shortly, thereafter,
Feeling somewhat trapped,
in this purgatory or hell.
Why couldn’t I tell you,
I felt just like that mouse?
Copyright © 1999 by Joan Pond, All rights reserved
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