The Race of the Rats

I look across, and see him there, he seems a lot like me.

Dropped in the maze of life, are we, to see who first will be.

I scramble forward, down the hall and quickly turn a right,

But as I sprint, ahead with haste, I find a dreadful sight.

A wall before, impedes my path. I’ve found around this bend,

What every rat here, views with fear, the fatal maze dead end.

I turn and run, retrace my steps, a right, a left and then,

Inside I scream, as up ahead, my path, it’s blocked again.

I spin and sprint, but as I do, my thinking tells me that,

No matter how I finish here, I’ll still remain a rat.

So maybe I should slow my pace. I’d probably reach my goal,

And as I did, I’d see the view and own a rested soul.

But somehow, I can’t pull the plug. I scurry, race and run,

As if inspired by fears unease, beneath my mind’s own gun.

And so I’ll finish life’s long race in harried, haggard form,

Because for rats, it’s just the pace, that seems to be the norm.

P. F. Kuhlmann

16, February 1997