“Cricket”: A Poem

Bred, dead, frozen, fed
The mice that are made
To feed the snake
Without whom we would be
Contented idiots
Oblivious to our nudity.
One would call it an act of cruelty
To conceive something
Only to let it die
Another would say “That’s life.”

The man received regular shipments
Of crickets that fulfilled the same purpose
They gave nutrients to the newts and other amphibians
Damned critters crawled over each other in a small box with little holes for air
But divine providence allowed a few to be spared.
I found two by the cabinets
That held pain relief tablets and killed them with pesticide
Because fear of unpredictable movements outweighed my pride

Thank god that was over, or so I thought
The movement out of my peripheral vision proved it was not
I turned my head and saw the miserable wretch
That was noticeably smaller than its deceased brethren.
I had a decision to make, as I was a god
Millions of times its size with a conscience and opposable thumbs.
Guilt consumed me, so I set it free.

I could feel it jumping on the other side of the paper, so I ran even more to the garage door.
I rushed to the grass and released the precious cargo to fend for itself 

While its family rested in a package on the shelf.

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