Foxes in the City Eat McDonald’s

A poem, a poet’s note and a prompt

Photo by Jiri Sifalda on Unsplash

In the city, foxes are like stealth bombers,
staying low, dark on dark, barely
a sliver of moonlight in their eyes.

They’re below everybody’s radar,
making hides in stormwater drains and
sewers, by the weed-infested creeks.

They dig, climb, slither,
adapt to metro life like they were
born to it. Fox yuppies

eating McDonald’s burgers and KFC
as they glide through the night
in their sleek red fur.

There’s always food on the side of the road
so chickens in flimsy city coops
are sport, the fox’s footy fever moment,

where nothing matters but the chase,
teeth ripping at soft underbellies, the blood-lust,
the squawking victims, the win.

Photo by Diogo Palhais on Unsplash

Poet’s note: I wrote this after yet another bunch of my chickens were killed by…