Phone vibrates all winter. The
exterminator cringes—
yet another squeal, demanding
he come fast. He plays at cat
and mouse, stalling them hours,
days. Then pocketing thick
gloves, flashlight, steel wool,
poison, he enters musty corners,
sets dry traps, pours tempting
pellets into little paper boats,
launches them here and there.
As he stuffs holes, he contemplates
the toughness of a world which
outlaws creatures he had learned
to love: starved from frozen
corn-stripped fields, small wonder
they outsmart those who grudge them
a few crumbs, a little warmth. The
exterminator does his job, takes his
money, leaves. In the long run of
things, he knows who will survive.