I feel no remorse
for the spider I found
innocently traversing
a pile of books on my desk
that I crushed without care
between thumb and pointer
feeling the liquid squish
without malice of forethought.

The dilemma did not exist.
It was an act dispassionate,
not contemplated.
Ants, flies, and the like
present no reason
for moral discourse.
They live; they die,
sometimes at human touch.
I have not yet seen a processional
with hearse and pomp
and tears and words
for those less significant.

And in all reality,
I feel no regret
at these acts,
though unkind,
but marvel still instead
at my indignation
at similar ones by others
toward others
of this species,
human—so damn—unkind.