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.
