Cold morning
putting out the trash — there’s 
a dead mouse on the porch

that apparently died
in the act of creeping along
the siding toward warmth,

or was perhaps killed by 
something but left
unconsumed:

perhaps as a warning
to others not to pass
this way?  

No matter:
I lift it from the spot
where it passed

and hurl it
into the yard
where it will become

a different kind of message
of how every death absorbed into 
its environment

vanishes.
Will I even remember
next year that I did this?

Was that why
this was written?  Was a mouse
born and killed to give me a poem?

I think this once and snort at my ego
that doesn’t even know 
why I’m here — maybe

I’m just here
to take out
the trash

and will some day die and be found
with the yellow bags in my hands
and others will nod sagely

and agree that I was good at that
as they wrap me up
and hurl me out of their minds.