Sensing me, it pauses.
Uncertain of what I will do.
But I am certain of my mercy.
With overturned pill cup and stiff card,
I trap it, carrying gently,
My little arachnid,
Out into the garden,
Releasing it to the wild.
Sensing me, it pauses.
Uncertain of what I will do.
But I am certain of my justice.
With canister of ‘Baygon’ (“Be gone!”),
I spray away, implacably.
This loathsome pest,
My chemical warfare,
Now reduced to writhing agony.
What is compassion, and justice, and mercy?
Is it what it does, or how it smells, or (shudder),
How it looks?
This is the way of the world.
© 2015 Silvester Phua