Mange
The mangy fox ranges
field to lawn,as
estranged from his sly skin, worn
thin–
I shout out “get away”
as I’ve been told,
the fox-stare back not bold,
but marble-shot direct
as yellow eyes reflect
a desert in the green,
this fox who shouldn’t be seen
except as stalk
in taller grass,
who pauses where I pass
to gnaw a paw–
All night the same–
the mangy fox who ranges through
my brain, kneading,
needing.
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Here’s a sort of poem very belatedly offered for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on With Real Toads about alienation. I think Kerry was thinking in more space age-y terms, but this came up. Photo is mine of poor little fox wandering around.
Sorry to have been so out of touch. I have been working a great deal at my job and also busy with certain family obligations (and family pleasures.) Miss miss miss posting poems, but just not possible right now.
ManicDDaily 
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