Anyway, it is a cold October
morning; he was misplaced I tell myself.
Never mind the fact that I crushed his neck
or that he now lies on his broken back
gurgling his last breath from collapsed lungs.
He should have seen that poised catapult,
my finger, and he should have flown away,
waited to wash his tiny paws later
in the day, after the warming sun
lubricated his joints or reflexes
or his brain synapses or whatever.
But the great irony is I remain
a hardened execution squad. I stay
merciless and unashamed. I am God.