Mouse's End

Mouse's End

Mother, farm bred and practiced,

fills the bucket to the very top

while staring in the direction of

the grey green greasy ceramic tile--

too good to replace yet.

The cage is sent for.

My sister returns, sobbing and stumbling,

stepping on the chalky white polish of her own shoes.

My father, the still center of the storm,

sits in gaping cotton boxer shorts

with his head forward, saying

"It's the most humane thing.

Now get your father a beer."

My sister sets the cage down,

delivers the beer, wills herself invisible.

We're ready.

Whitey drops head first

into the cold tap water.

Mother clamps the scratched plate on.

A roiling,

then the gift of silence.