Cuniculus

A rabbit.
The stench of death and oil linger, barely
noticeable, still it weaves itself between and
through her legs, the air around her frame.
Built around her is glass, sad and stable ice.
Exposed, our quiescent lucky-pawed mammal
waits, watches. The onlookers peer through
the strong sheets of the vessel-
studying her eyes, her nose, her hind legs, fragile and bony.
Peanut-crunching, note-taking visitors tarry.
Our rabbit, our spectacle, our subject.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
A small finger bounces off of her cage.
The rabbit flinches. No room now to run.
No room to move, to breathe, to hide.
How transparent, her home, yet how structured.
How indestructible.
This cathedral of mirror holds our friend now.
Volitant foreigners traipse through, one by two,
four by ten. Every angle, every inch of our dear rabbit
is recorded, noted, checked and bookmarked.
Medicine is administered to keep her well, to keep
her fat, to keep her audience.
Sweet rabbit, it does nothing.
Tap, tap, tap, year after year.
The echoes of yesterday’s and tomorrow’s thuds
resound forever within her urn.
Never better, never healthy.
For recovery certainly warrants abandonment.
Something wrong?
Forever ill. Forever entertainment. .
I am your opus.
I am your rabbit.

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