Eating Out (Poetry)

The broker slumbers, snug in Bloomsbury,
counting flocks of gilt-edged sheep;
the civil servant and the cleric
mumble, soft, in portly sleep -

deaf to yelping, sharp-nosed foxes
scavenging for gourmet scraps;
singing for their dustbin suppers -
tuneless choruses of yaps

from behind closed bars and bistros
where they snatch a toothsome bite -
cold kebabs and chicken curry,
'the house special' - fresh tonight.

In the park the badgers forage,
chew on crusts the shop girl meant
for the well-fed ducks now dozing,
eiderdowned, their dreams content.

While the hedgehog grunts and trundles
lawn to lawn around the square,
squeezing through the wrought iron railings,
rooting, hunting, unaware

of the owl who sits and watches,
patient, silent, for his prey -
tasty morsels made to order -
mouse-sized snacks to take away.

And bats a-flutter over water,
gobble moths in frenzied flight -
grey soufflés of dizzy insects
whipped up by the moon's pale light.

Throughout town the sounds of feasting -
oblivious, the banker snores,
supine, stuffed - his liberal leavings
in the doggy bowl outdoors.