Small Memoriam - edit2

[dukealien]

Small Memoriam II


He was no pet:  a common long-tailed mouse
who got inside somehow, but in my house
that little presence made me feel unkind
for plotting his demise.  He’d watch behind
me as I typed until I saw him, too,
then flee when noticed.  Though I hatched a few
ideas how to catch him, he was smart–
he’d lick the bait from traps but always dart
away on weightless feet, uncaught and free,
declined a private room (my live-catch trap),
approved noir cinema, left tiny crap
on floors, chewed into food up on a shelf
above my head. I couldn’t help myself,
and, being human, bought technology:
glue pads eluded prey psychology.

I see him from the corner of my eye–
his ghost, it must be, mouse that had to die.
And that is best for him and me, I lie.

edit1;

Small Memoriam

Can anyone feel such sincere regret
for acts which cannot be undone and yet
on balance had to be accomplished?  Pet
he was not, just a common long-tailed mouse
who got inside somehow...  but in my house
that smallest presence made me feel a louse
for plotting his demise.  He’d sit and view
computer movies ‘til I saw him, too,
then run when noticed.  Though I had a few
ideas how to catch him, nothing worked–
he’d lick the bait from traps but never jerked
them hard enough to trigger.  Still he lurked:
declined a private room (my live-catch trap),
approved noir cinema, left tiny crap
on pantry floors, chewed through chips’ Mylar wrap...

I see him from the corner of my eye–
his ghost, it must be, mouse that had to die.
And that is best for him and me, I lie.


original version;

It’s possible to feel sincere regret
for acts which cannot be undone and yet
on balance had to be accomplished.  Pet
he was not, just a common long-tailed mouse
who got inside somehow...  but in my house
companionable, made me feel a louse
for plotting his demise.  He’d sit and view
computer movies ‘til I saw him, too,
then run when noticed.  Though I had a few
ideas how to catch him, nothing worked -
he’d lick the bait from traps but never jerked
it hard enough to snap.  And still he lurked:
made my den his, disdained a live-catch trap,
watched DVDs with me, left tiny crap
on pantry floors, chewed through the Mylar wrap
of chips and croutons, showing his good taste.
I miss him now, for in my and his haste
for solitude and food we laid him waste.

I see him from the corner of my eye–
his ghost, it must be, mouse that had to die.
And that’s what’s best for him and me, I lie.

This is raw, little edited.  A sonnet and a half?