Daddy Mousetrap B
I unearthed mouse turds in the silverware tray.
The little furry devils are back.
I bought some traps.
The little wooden snappy ones.
The kind my father wielded decades before.
They hadn't changed one bit throughout the years,
Why change deadly perfection, I guess.
I used to think my father was cruel.
Why couldn't he live-trap and release them in a nearby field?
Back then nobody questioned their father.
So, I'd loyally watch him load the business end of the trap.
With a dab of irresistible.
Come morning, I had the dirty task of checking the traps.
More often than not, they were sprung.
The tiny bulging-eyed victim screaming back at me.
With a final unanswered prayer hanging from its yellow teeth.
I'd quickly shake the mouse macabre into the trash.
Then proudly give the good news to daddy mousetrap.
Unlike my father, my children would never inherit this dirty task...
of resetting the mousetraps.
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