Fox is a streak, an orange flame,
pulled by the snout, a meteorite tail behind him.
Slinking across the street, he stops dead centre
to consider his options.
Like money just clinked in his head, he continues,
through the bars into the darkness of the park.
With eyes, steak knives, through the blackness,
he hurries to where a spine-chilling scream occurs at 3am.
