True Winners of the Race

Wrists and ankles burn and itch
From these shackles hanging
Like red rusty vines
From burned-out trees:
Rats in suits racing
For ethereal cheese,
Clawing,
Snarling,
Leaving teeth
Lodged
On grimy hide.
Some stumble, crushed
Never to bare
Whiskered smiles.

While the wise
On lush prairies
Roam the plains,
With them laughing
Their little ones.