we're the mud on the bottom of your shoes.
sucking and pulling at you,
bring you down down, stay around a little longer.
and we'll sit and mold and bubble
as the bugs burrow deep into us, tunnels.
when the sun comes out and we can hear it;
the distant call of chapel bells pealing.
but every road gets hosed eventually.
and then we will run and drip into the sewers,
swept away in a tide to become clean.
we are the rabbits caught in your iron cage,
shaking and our eyes are red,
force a smile, maybe we can be just pets instead.
and we're trapped here, but not within these walls
we're slaves to our own heads.
but our hides are so pretty, so pale.
and the hunters want to skin us
and scrape the hair away with a dull knife.
please, show us how to survive.
please keep us safe.
we were not built with reality in mind.
what rules apply to those as unruly as us?
we're too big for these rooms we gather in,
laugh and wink and swap war stories,
our hands folded in our skinny, skinny laps.
but here we are--so clean, so new through
the old leathery canvas of scars and shots.
and we really don't know what to do with ourselves.
sit in these dens of curling smoke and coffee rings,
feel lost and giant once we leave the door.
we are realities puppies.
we are nomads.
we are yes-men.
we are kings.
