steve a. manolis poet

Dead Mouse

                                                    

A man, bent of many years, across the street I did spy

With bag of refuge in old hand,

Tending gently to his land.

 

Picking twigs and bits of leave, with gloved hand, rolled up sleeve

Turning his autumn yard,

Free of such discard.

 

Then in time as time stands still, life alone, life of will

A lump of clay a breathless mouse,

Lying silent near his house.

 

So boldly man with gloveless hand did now reach

Stifled mouse, did nary retreat,

With one quick toss onto the street.

 

And as I watch upon hidden perch such act of solemn soul

A tear I felt within my eye,

To honor small death as death goes by.

 

Then old man walks a step away turns back once head so low

Can he be... and looks back twice

A light of  sorrow?... And he turns back thrice.

 

With mind made up he strode with aim

Towards stiffened prince of cheese,

Dormant on street man approached with ease.

 

Planted firm his foot did find with heavy booted swing

To his task not quite complete

Kicked dusty mouse further down the street.