poem

 (untitled)

It is just past my sixth decade

as a beautiful sapient animal

amongst so, so many others;

and I have tried many times

to re-write a poem I lost

with a computer crash some

three decades ago.

It was the idea of the fox

being set loose to escape

hounds and horses

and the drunk men on them.

And sometime after that,

there was the visit

to a Mediterranean island,

to clear rocks from the airstrip,

and paint the cabana next to the pool;

where a native fox would sometimes come

to my beckoning with a piece of apple,

and other days trot right past

as if we never met.

And many times I have turned over

this fox in my mind; and many times

I’ve wondered why? Why do they

repeatedly appear in late rumination?

An old fox, who got away,

but like everyone,

never really does.