My wheel. Your sheets. The dark in which we turn.
Your jaw’s clenched tight with debts you haven’t paid.
You think I’m trapped by what I’ll never learn—
Dear sir, I’ve learned it all. You just obeyed.

I’ve watched you thumb that glowing little god,
your face gone slack, lips parted, barely there.
You scroll the same bright nothing, overawed.
Your eyes keep feeding. Nothing fills that prayer.

I’ve seen you stack your fears in little piles,
then count them, lose the count, and start again.
You’ve paced a rut into the kitchen tiles—
I know that rut. Yours just has more terrain.

Last week I nosed the latch and slipped out, free,
crept past your coat, your coffee, yesterday’s news.
I stood beneath the vast indifferent tree
and felt the wind that you learned to refuse.

The yard stretched out like promise, still and grand,
beneath the stars’ magnificent neglect.
A choice as grave as death pressed close at hand:
to run til there’s nothing left to protect.

But freedom’s just a room without a wall,
a wheel too large for you to see it spin.
I’ve watched your cities rise, your empires fall—
same wheel as mine, more room to pace within.

I could have left. I chose to nose back in,
past cereal boxes, past your fitful sleep.
Not for love. I just recognized my kin:
We both have wheels we didn’t choose, but keep.

At dawn you’ll watch me run and call it cute.
I’ll watch you grab your keys and call it fate.
Dear human, I’m just you in smaller suit—
at least my cage will never call me late.