Living Room (a lachesis)

They say I’m wily as a fox.
I am one hiding in the phlox
Bordering a black mailbox.

Long gone are the fertile fields and wood
My parents hunted.  This is no good.

I’m forced to hunt a vast suburbs.
Instead of leaping streams, it’s curbs—
Yes me, the subject of proverbs.

But where else can I possibly go?
I cannot fly off like a crow.

Those humans work with machine speed
Bulldozing land to gorge their greed.
They never ask us what we need.

I hear a mousy squeak up there
Under the hosta.  Do I dare?

I see a chipmunk scratching seed.
I smell a road-killed skunk’s last deed.
There are so many of us in need.

Red Fox
by Jan Haffley