Mice in my Garage

There are mice in my garage.
And I have not killed a mouse,
but I have seen it done 
with traps 
and I have seen them crushed underfoot
I have also seen how cats kill them, and cats have left me dead mice

Once before, I rented a house 
and they came in on a couch
which had been left uncovered in a barn by fields
but most were gone in a panic, when the cat caught one
and my friend stepped on one, half accidentally, 
and we took his shoe off to shake it into the gutter.

I have killed rabbits, when hunting
and I enjoyed the sport of it, 
for they are larger than pheasants
and once frightened, they will sometimes stop to be sure there was danger
and hold still

Once I shot a rabbit, and it hadn’t died. 
It rested beneath a pine-tree and kicked
And my father was far away, behind the trees
I hadn’t learned yet how he killed them 
By stepping on them
Or wringing their necks
How to hold them aloft by their heads
and swing round

So I loaded again, and stepped back until I felt it was far enough, 
and shot it again
And all up and around it went. 
Up into the low branches,
And the frosty black trunk
Most of it curled back and around by the roots
We kept the dog from it
and left it there

But mice are not like rabbits, or pheasants. 
I suppose.
And they are in my garage
And there are no friends or cats here
To crush them mistakenly, or gratefully eat them.

I haven’t learned yet how my father kills them
With traps
Or poison
Today, or tomorrow
I will call him and ask