the rat race.
the cuckoo bird calls.
we answer.
pick a number.
wait to be called.
endlessly waiting for permission
to feast.
to satiate.

the clock ticks.
the body begs for rest.
the man looms.
the race cannot end here.

the cuckoo flies,
feeds,
rests,
then returns
to usher us home.
the sweet relief
of unfulfilled needs, waiting,
waiting.

in the elevator,
the white rat —
they allow her a pink sundress
(it gives her a sense of autonomy) —
and still she cries,
“we are modern day slaves!”

perhaps too extreme a sentiment,
but the fact remains,
this knowledge is not
power.
for the rats can no longer live
without the call of the cuckoo,
the shadow of the man.