Wrought-Iron Ratcage

There was once a young horned hare with lucky feet 

Who was so fast he could tread water on any beat

Yet was afraid to take leaps despite being an athlete 

Because he didn’t want to turn into magical mincemeat 

There was no intention to tread water or to better outfeat

Since staring back at that popcorn ceiling he felt incomplete 

So he yearns to return to the primordial soup or become obsolete

Yet there was another young horned hare who lives further down the street

Who likes to play down by the headlands creek with the local clay and peat

Who is doing her best to regulate in the heavenly sweetgrass and not overheat 

Unfortunately for her she was afraid to grind food in her mortar and to eat

It’s still the same restless thumps and kicks from our hind legs on repeat

As if love won’t work if it’s measured and recorded on some receipt  

They then could get lost in their tinderbox of immortality and self-deceit 

Designed intricately with bone and salt through some overzealous creed

The spirits inside order dirty martinis extra cherries, dark beers and a whiskey neat 

Only for to take all their buzzkills and killjoys and turn them bittersweet 

Like love and happiness becomes some trickster-deity’s game of trick-or-treat

Making their wrought-iron ratcage appear more like reinforced concrete

And in the end the two horned hares yearn to share the same heartbeat

© Niklen 8/12/26