Food

I'm conditioned
to not give a
when I tuck into duck.
Duckling cuteness,

creamy plumage, orange beaks,
have nothing to do
with the meat on my plate.
Else how could I eat it?

Mercifully, I'm as adept as anyone
at not considering the pig
when I knife a sausage
or butcher best bacon.

And, equally, I am
experienced at ignoring
the lovely photogenic lambchild
when I order lamb casserole. I am.

And I thank the chef,
not the animal,
when I select shank
from the menu. I do.

Yet, each mouse
ensnared in my house
is caught in a humane trap
and released in the park.

Carefully I carry it
across the road to the park
and tell it not to come back.
Then it leaps off into the dark

leafy depths of the night.
I wish it well.
In the branches above,
an honest owl,

statue still,
has no qualms.
Hunt. Kill. Eat. Live.
Simple.