The Hangmen of George Hillock

I'd been away with her for days; came home to
a sink full of dishes, a bar littered with empties
overflowing trash cans and general disarray.
Needless to say
I instantly wanted to leave again, head back
to her big city.
Twenty-five and still shackled to a roommate
is no pleasant state of being
but I can't have what I want yet.

After heading upstairs and unpacking my things--
a book I hadn't touched, some dirty underwear--
I went to pull the blinds and noticed something
floating in the bucket that I use to catch the condensation
under the air conditioner.
There he was, alright: the elusive mouse
that had been scampering about the second floor
darting under doors after stealing the rabbit's food.

The gray fur was thin and matted, his feet dangling below him
like tentacles of a jellyfish that'd never live to sting another.
It was quite a pathetic sight, conjured very little pity.

At some point he just gave up.
I wondered how long he treaded water for before succumbing.
What was his last thought?

The toilet flushed itself as the bowl filled violently with the contents
of the bucket, the mouse swirling
down to the septic tank buried beneath the front yard.
"Delivered by plumbing once again," I laughed to myself.

There's something to be said for the gracious loser, the one
who bows out humbly when he knows he's lost.
There's a story there, but not mine.