Growing Soft

Sorry to say, but several things about you bother me.
For one, you are cleverly invisible most times.
I hear your soft scurry there, behind the walls,
mostly in the kitchen. You are all ghostly generations
of past infestations. It’s true, war is sometimes not the answer.
But when Combat fails, however, we will not make love. No, 
that’s the way it has to be, humans versus you: That age-old species war continues.
Another thing: You leave bold evidence of your nonchalance,
brazen indication that you’ve been here overnight.
A nibble indentation here, a small crumb-strewn area there.
I reflect on this bitterly, sipping at my morning coffee
as I toss the muffins I’d looked forward to,
so foolishly having left them out on the kitchen counter.
My father slaughtered your kind by thousands in his time,
rubber slipper armed in hand-to-hand battle with your progenitors.
When I do see you now, I am too soft, cannot kill you anymore,
toss you out the door, and that’s what bothers me most of all.

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