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There was something familiar / about the way you milled, accelerated / when that little playground rock / was first upturned
There was something familiar
about the way you milled, accelerated
when that little playground rock
was first upturned,
how you
galloped panicked
when the crunch
of an unjust sky hand
picked the first one off at random.
How predictable, pathetic
your dash
for new shelter,
trying to fit under, in, behind
for a few heartstopping
fractions of a second
before terror compelled you
to make a futile scurry
for ten more seconds of life.
Victim, you had my slender thumb
in your destiny. I merely
spectated those final
out-of-mind
sick-with-fear
moments,
myself a puppet of
life-isn't-fair.
I stuffed your crushed remains
into a tiny hole in a patio stone
and killed again.
I didn't hesitate,
though I knew myself
what it was to scurry
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