Suburban Fox

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There’s a fox on my street

eating up the cats at night…

and in the morning, there’s

nothing left but a smile.

Teeth hide teeth in rows

behind black lips and red

eyebrows …and when it

snows, a tail covers a body.

Boots stalk the football field

after the Friday night games…

and small Voles, blind during

the days, sneak through holes…

They never see two moons in

milky eyes. They never see that

face. And they’re snatched. One

after the next …the fox grows fat.

Laziness is a burden carried by

the owners of heavy hearts…and

for all he does right, Voles feel like

not enough. During the day, we

play football in the street…and on

the front lawn of one end zone, he

stands alert and alone, no dark to

help him run. No one notices, just

another forward pass in Autumn…

just humans being human.

Text tagged as: poem spilled_ink writing poet poetry fox suburbs pop_punk writer writing