ode to a squirrel's passing

The eight year old doctor
who lives next door, regrets
to inform me that the mother
of the five baby squirrels
who nest in the oak tree
has met an untimely demise.

She carefully checked for a pulse-
her tiny fingers wedged beneath
the mess of bloodied fur.
The squirrel's tiny teats, engorged,
seemed to affect me more
than her actual death or her resting place
among fast-food litter and
the dewy morning grass.

Road kill.

"Cars should be illegal."
She whispered, as if the squirrel
might somehow be disturbed.

"Maybe someday they will be." I replied.

The astronomical price of gas
managed to outweigh the death
of that innocent but aggravating
bulb-thieving pest.