How is a fox like a toaster?
What mundane task would a living fox do in a home?
How would a toaster be rewilded?
Where the kitchen stove glows
still warm, cats dream,
and mice dance with stray crumbs,
nudge loose-fitting lids,
chew holes in the mesh
of the food safe.
Padding soft, almost silent,
the fox in the attic descends
the cold stairs, grey-ghost,
in search of fat mice,
where cats stretch in sleep,
in the stove-glow,
their dreams full of tiny squeals.
I found a fox in the crumb tray of my toaster once.
My friend found kippers in a bank deposit drawer.
One of these is true.
Life, stranger than fiction. Poetry, stranger than both.
Proud and red
on his forages
on cold plates
He accepts another
of bread, takes care
to avoid a stand off
with a knife or fork,
then warms to his task
before he merges,
unseen, by a den
on the look out
As humans yawn inside the house
The toaster lurks behind the shed
When all is dark it hunts for crumbs
And pounces on a slice of bread
The bagels roll in frantic haste
Baguettes pretend to be a post
For each one knows that if it’s caught
All hope is gone and they’ll be toast