The moose next door
acrylic paint on canvas by Robert Margetts
I sit inside my cage
and tear at raw flesh from metal bowls
twice a day.
Then circle back
to the hollow corners
where the light never stays.
You
slide the meat through iron bars
and expect gratitude—
as if confinement were comfort,
as if an iron coffin
were not a tomb without a crime.
You pass my prison daily
while I serve your silent time.
He
flings a peanut.
She tosses a candy bar.
They wave, they jeer,
they press their faces to the glass—
mocking, shouting,
venting their small frustrations
against my existence,
and calling it amusement.
We are
the ones who watch you pass.
We are the ones who count the days.
We are the ones who feel the slow decay
of hope against rusted bars.
We are the ones who truly know:
You
are the beast—
trapped in your brief mortality,
terrified of the dark,
kneeling before soiled priests,
begging forgiveness
for cages of your own design.
They
come in droves.
Engines humming.
Doors slamming.
Children laughing.
They wander past our cells,
scatter genetically engineered crumbs,
and ignite storms
inside minds built for open skies.
Tell
me—
who is the animal?
Who
traps my kind
and calls it mercy?
You,
slaves to your world
of profit and spectacle,
stuffed with fear,
marinated in quiet hate,
walking past iron corridors
weeping orange rust—
never shedding a tear
for the pulse behind the bars.
You
speak of sympathy,
of empathy,
of progress—
polished words
that clatter hollow
on concrete floors.
You
enlightened creature
who fears our instinct,
our strength,
our freedom—
It is you who have been fleeced.
It is you who pace invisible cages.
It is you
who are the beast.
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