Death Of A Mouse

It was a small death
silently met
in a warm night.

Morning came
with a sad mouth
telling a truth

we did not need
in our busy home.
Run out of time

on the scurrying wheel,
he no longer hid
his head or burrowed

under the papery
shavings, curled
plump from the real

hardness of light,
but, humped, lay
lost as a cry

in the wide cage.
One comes to expect
no less of fate

than Finis. It
is a turned page,
a different pledge.

by Hannah Smith

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