Skinner Talks

crumpled leaves and compound words
doghouse, catfish, snakebite,
subtle sounds that are
barely bearable.
like a mouse
in a two-
bit hole
that we
fashioned
out of air and
no air. I don't see
a future for our rodent,
who so silent slumbers in his
single-story home. quiet. timid. taciturn.
it's almost like his rapid breath
is a reminder of our own
mortality, but i hate to
extrapolate mice
actions with
our own.
quickly,
breathe
a bit faster,
for in dreams
mice have more
chance to dream than we,
who own our world. if a mouse
is small, it can only dream big, and in
comparison, our dreams are
nothing but a concrete
maze, and nothing
is at the end.
perhaps
our dreams
were once green
leaves, up higher than
our lowly selves. But now we
dream on asphalt beds and crumpled.
shorter our words and dreams
seem until there's
nothing
left to say.