Capitulation

I’m not proud of using a glue trap

to catch a field mouse,

finding it lying on its side

portrait of a rodent in repose.

It discomfits me to remember

the old man I know in the nursing home

glued into a futile position until he hears my voice.

Thinking he has a choice, he struggles upright 

and we have a ridiculous conversation.

When are we gonna go to Vegas

and please, babe, get me out of here.

I think my chipper answer is extraneous.

I’m no more or less generous

than the nighttime nurse.

I’m not proud of my lack of sentiment

for the old gent who lived in a double-wide next door

for twenty years or more and who outlived

or alienated any meaningful relationships.

Pity comes sometimes when I find him asleep

or pretending to be and he’s lying on his side 

more mouse than man patiently waiting to surrender.