Fox Fur (Poetry)

Her hats were always fanciful affairs —
a cup of felt with fur or feather trim,
a swirl of veiling skimming her permed hair
and dipped below her thickly powdered chin.

Around her shoulders like a trophy hung
an ancient pelt whose pop-eyed glassy glare
chilled me through, slim empty forelegs swung
in mockery, teeth clasped in real despair.

As she moved its hackles seemed to rise,
bristle with contempt for fashion’s sport,
pupils black as thin unlucky flies
in factory resin uniformly caught.

When Elsie died her worldly goods were few —
not much for eighty years — her one bequest
to me was boxed, the contents I well-knew
so buried it and gave the creature rest.