busybee Writing Bad Poetry

    The mouse
        hangs around my kitchen,
wondering whether it's safe to eat the peanut butter
 on the two loaded-and-wound traps.

 I look over, see it sniffing,
whiskers quivering with anticipation.
I wince and look away,
bracing myself for the snap and crunch,
not wanting to see the dirty deed or its aftermath.
Like the spring I am tightly-wound.

My heart freezes for a short eternity.
There is only silence.
I look back over, and the mouse has not tried to eat.
It has won, for now

It will survive
    another
        minute.