Tidy

In a tidy garden, cold on crazy paving, stranded by the shed, the dead rat lies:

reluctant penitent at prayer, thin paws held stiffly,

eyes shut in death throe rictus, tail curled, hugging a frosted abdomen.

Exploration driven by hunger,

the tempering of wariness leading to a lingering end;

lately drawn from Sunday fields, before dawn’s broken promise,

the lure of fat and dried mealworm, the scent of calculated temptation,

breakfasting by an ornate bird table, laid by a neat and tidy mind.

High on a shelf, locked in the shed,

sits a box from the hardware store that sells everything:

unseen contents, palpably present

yet failing to raise any spasm of guilt or sentiment in a Type A personality,

who, putting away the cruelty of it,

burying the barbarity along with any empathy

when confronted with the consequence of a few moments of typical pragmatism,

now looks for a shovel.