The Mice Charles Bukowski
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my father caught the baby mice
they were still alive and he
flung them into the flaming
incinerator
one by one.
the flames leaped out and I wanted to throw my father
in there
but my being 10 years old
made that
impossible.
"o.k., they're dead," he told me,
"I killed the bastards!"
"you didn't have to do that,"
I said.
"do you want them running
all over the house?
they leave droppings, they bring disease!
what would you do with them?"
"I'd make pets out of them."
"pets!
what the hell's wrong with
you anyhow?"
they were still alive and he
flung them into the flaming
incinerator
one by one.
the flames leaped out and I wanted to throw my father
in there
but my being 10 years old
made that
impossible.
"o.k., they're dead," he told me,
"I killed the bastards!"
"you didn't have to do that,"
I said.
"do you want them running
all over the house?
they leave droppings, they bring disease!
what would you do with them?"
"I'd make pets out of them."
"pets!
what the hell's wrong with
you anyhow?"
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