Dave Bonta's "Constrained" is only six lines long, but it rests on one odd comparison. The speaker likens their life to a king who can't "whip a cat." The phrase echoes the old saying that there isn't room to swing a cat, which suggests a cramped, hemmed-in space. Here the idea is turned around: even a king, who should have all the power in the world, can't do the one small thing he wants.
The second half of the poem names what holds the speaker back: "the clock." Time sets the limits of their days, and they feel as boxed in by schedules and deadlines as the king is by his tiny, impossible task. The speaker never says they are angry or sad, and that restraint is part of the effect. The tone is dry and a little wry, with a quiet frustration underneath. The mood is one of weary resignation, the feeling of someone who seems to have every freedom on paper but still can't escape the pressure of time.