The white mouse was day
The dark mouse night
They would take turns to run the wheel
The saw dust and feces
The running and the anxiety behind the legs
The revolving caged wheel
Glass exterior oneself on display
dark mouse night, white mouse day
Little legs hurry
The religion of productivity
practiced through prayer of scurrying
Fingers touch and mist the glass
Sometimes tapping
Sometimes putting skin on glass
The prints appear as hieorglyphs
Mice eyes attempt to decipher
In a reality where the only noise
When the wheel is not turning
is the second hand ticking
Running around the face
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