He sits, confined in his small enclosure.
Bored with inactivity and little empowered to make decisions on his behalf, he spends his days in a state of progressive atrophy. His brain softening slowly, like a banana ripening into gooey, useless mush. His once proud shoulders have been rounded smooth over time.
Onlookers and passersby tap on the glass, but he has long inured himself to such distractions.
A wayward crumb on his shoulder captivates him now. He picks at it. He examines it. And, after much careful consideration, he guides it into his mouth.
He scratches himself absentmindedly.
Once, long ago, he ran free.
Once, longer still, he dreamed of glory.
Now, presently, he just is.
And aches for the day when he isn’t*.
*No, dear readers, I’m not suicidal. Sheesh.