a poem to a squirrel

you, or some of the other many squirrels who look like you,
over the course of the summer
ate all of my sunflowers
which are hard to grow on a rooftop.

i tried scaring you, and shooing you,
and smelling and sniffing you off
but you kept coming
and eating my sunflowers and my tomatoes
and digging up my whatevers
which are hard to grow.

i was angry.

i could have poisoned you;

i could have shot you.

i could have waited patiently reading a book
and at the right time thrown a rock at your head
and (if aimed right) could have gone right back to
reading my book as you lay dying slowly
in the neighbor's yard (i did think of this).

Instead, I bought cage traps and did
the only thing I knew to do
which is caught you and moved you elsewhere
to be a blessing instead of a curse.

I don't know if you who I caught this morning, specifically,
in the cage right now, ever ate any of my sunflowers.
It is my limitation that all squirrels
look alike

but my husband is late with the car
and it's raining hard
so you have to wait in a cage in my storage room
in the dark
with your head (as I've seen you many times today
as I went to look for a tool or fetched back the dog
who could not help but sniff at your terrified body)
pressed motionlessly hard against the door that you can
never open, thinking final thoughts,
for many hours,
with only the remaining half of a small green tomato that you once treasured, and
a shallow bowl of water to keep you company, as they say,
until I can take you to the park.