the wheel

the shovel
is new. the spade holds
the harsh sunlight
in its steel curve.
the shoe box
holding
the hamster is light,
the weight of death slight
in my daughter's hand
as we go to the edge
of the yard
where the woods begin.
he didn't have
much of a life, she says
in her small voice,
did he?
she looks up
to me
as we walk.
all day long on that
squeaky wheel,
alone in his cage.
now he's free, she says.
no one wants a life like that,
do they?
no, I tell her,
finding a soft spot with
which to dig,
pressing the shovel into
the earth with a hard boot.
no one deserves a life
like that.