Poor Wooden Puppy

my poor wooden puppy
has a leash
  nailed into his throat
       and therefore
       has no say
  in what the other end
  gets wrapped around
       or tied to
and when we
walk and run
       we roll, tangled
both as likely
to go backward
       as forward
the where and when
  we're rolling
bumps of where
  we've already been
        (or have we?)
his wooden nose
   knows not

truth is, puppy
this world really is
  a tunnel
     of conveyance
its motors and belts
  deeply hidden
  within everyday life
     and tradition
bodies and buildings
          disappear
     behind us,   because
we see
only what we want
           
(to remember)

and no one truly
       walks here
motors turn
    streets funnel-in
  our wheels turn
       holding our place
life and time pass
     in projections
     of recycled periphery
until our wheels
  wear down to nothing
                   then we fall

the end
    of the tunnel    approaches
and there is no light
only wheels, gears
  and the spinning hum
  of thousands
  of hungry      carbide teeth
each hardened, sharpened
                       promising
a swift
  whisper-sting step
                 forward
                 upward
                 into the light