It was a bloodless kill—
the copper hammer bar
buried like fate and still
gripping his flattened neck.
One quick snap
of an old wooden trap,
the word “Victor”
painted bright red
just below the spring
and the trip hanging loose,
the rat hanging dead.
His eyes were black
as unlit lamps,
their fuse burned out
in the metal of night
just after we twisted
the wire cage off
a champagne cork,
our glasses raised
to the fireworks
of unalloyed joy.
There is great relief,
although I have
the barest scrap
of regret:
he was a fellow
creature after all,
unaccustomed to thinking
that greed trumps caution,
destined to leave
with his eyes fixed
in a barren stare
of disbelief.
