He’d sprinted blind into the open road
and she didn’t have time to steer away.
I told myself of mercy, something owed,
when I drove the second car to hit the stray.
I had aimed for the neck to make it quick
yet still felt all the worse for paying it.
The mirror saw his last spasmodic kick,
a dying soldier paid in counterfeit.
Who knows the value of the things we keep,
the hat in tatters or the once dear friend?
Should I leave them to their fitful sleep—
let nature bring her own unhurried end,
or should I settle these unsettled debts?
Is it a crime to kill such lonesome pets?