Its chirp and squabble didn't stop
all through my morning's shed chores:
threading the old combine through narrow set supports,
testing its radio, which prophesied cool, dry nights
in a disembodied tone, then to mend the sickle bars
stacked long and neat on wooden pegs,
each ensconced in a shroud of chaff and rust —
until I pulled an ancient sun-cracked tire from the loft
that hit and shot a sideways burst of crusted nest.

There it was, the mouse, beside a sheet of tin,
eyes not yet open, a bulb of pink flesh
no larger than a child's thumb.

And there, in the company of no one,
among the paper cartons of poison, the five
surviving barn cats, and the red-tails
that hang still as clouds, then dip, so silent
you'd never know,
I snuffed the mouse like a cigarette,
grinding with the toe of my boot until gravel
gave way to soil, and I was sure
I had worn it to dust.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 189, no. 2, November 2006. Used with permission.