When you are givena piece of black paper in schooland taught to make a cube,you carry it home in your handand though it comes homedamaged under the maplesyou learn to press itwith a strictnessagainst your thighto keep its shapeat attention by your bed.Call it a cagefor the evening:a cage for the pixelated darkin which move the night’sinfinite animals,who thrive on the inside facesof your walls,over your body, and danceon your twenty nail beds.Outdoorsin the broader shapeof the neighborhood,larger versions shift acrossthe streets and lawns.Street lamps light their haunchesas if they can only be seenin retreat: two legs, an arm,and a glimpse of their backs,no faces or mouths––like the video copiesof your small frameyou try to capturewhenever you’re lead beneatha grocery store’s screens.And when you wake,your cube has unfolded itselfto sunlight, to the dustingand wiping down of your room.You can play,but there are errands waiting for youin the afternoon:you know the routine.____Peter Mishler is a public school English teacher living in Syracuse, NY. He was educated at Emerson College and Syracuse University. His poems have appeared in a variety of journals including Crazyhorse, LIT, New Ohio Review, Ninth Letter and The Antioch Review.