Touch the Dead Fox

Glassily gazing out to the reservoir
On the windowsill in the wood beam brass décor bar
There is a stuffed fox
Poised in a pink plastic snarl of faded canines
Its feet painted green with the polystyrene base.

A couple sat down next to us, smiling at each other.
She placed a half of lager on the beer mat,
He ruffled the fox’s back as had hands
A hundred times before.
‘Touch the stuffed fox, Sandra,’ he said;
‘Go on, stroke it.’
She reached out behind me, leaning
On the leather seat,
Overcoming a flush of fear,
And stopped just short of its mothy tail.
‘I can’t,’ she said, high-pitched. ‘It’s horrible.’
With a manicured finger she touched his nose instead.

He laughed with condescension
Which was the more derisive for being kindly:
She was his woman and she must be protected
From such things as dead foxes.