By the door

I'm sedated
and stuck, glued, tucked
at the base of the door.
The same door my parents crept me in,
the same door dipped
in billboards with leather sofas,
scantily clad women, and liquor.
The same one I have praised for so long.

This sedating agent
throbs in hot veins
bludgeons my senses,
captures, strikes, and kills
my choice and thought,
while blessing me with the cool relaxation
only the devil should be allowed.

But that is the general,
and this is the specific.
Me. Laying at the base of a door
while the American dreams quietly crawl
around my temples
easing and massaging so gently
I begin to meow.
I meow, and I am the animal.

Now I am animal,
and I surely cannot be human,
because I have learned.

“Press this lever and get this food.”
But I cannot, and I am still,
under the weight of giant corporations,
or expectations, or biting alcohol
which goes down harder than my butt
when I try to get up.

But the musings don't help,
so I'll bow at the bottom of the door
with spittle at my mouth
and blank looks on watery eyes
signaling no answer to the lever problem.
The problem with the machine up high
and drugged up animals crouching below.
Sedentary, I don't hope.
I just meow.