Pest

When death happens fast enough,
Life’s just broken, not so bad.
In the morning, on the porch,

You check the traps set to keep
The deer mice out of the house.
Whenever you find one snapped,

There’s the small, crushed, flattened skull
Caught by the bar in mid bite,
One quickly broken device.

The thing you dread is finding
One that almost got away,
Not broken head, broken leg,

Knowing that life’s been dragging
Its disaster all night long,
Trying to escape by dawn.