They'll Sing and Dance

Walking, there’s a mouse.
Not the kind that scurries,
but the kind with an unmoving smile,
stitched wide enough to swallow children whole.

The costume creaks at the joints.
The fur shines too much,
plastic eyes fogging
from the sweat trapped inside.

Its face does not change.
It waves with one padded hand,
the other gripping a balloon
that will sag before sundown.

Children stare.
Some cry.
Some run forward, arms out,
as if a cardboard cutout
of an idea
could be enough.

Inside,
someone is paid hourly.
Paid to wear the grin
that cannot falter.
Paid to stand in the sun,
breathing polyester air,
praying the shift ends
before the illusion does.

The mouse keeps smiling.
The children keep believing.
The company keeps counting.
And I keep walking,
pretending I didn’t see
the way the costume
swayed
on its feet.