Red Fox
My lover mentioned my recent literary silence today.
So I find myself contemplating
as I scrub the stale tobacco taste
from my tongue and lips,
the small red fox I saw on my late night drive through suburbia.
I traced the twisting back roads,
scouring the darkness, gleaning my thoughts,
compiling insight.
And there he was, small and unaware
as the headlights washed over him,
bathing his carroty coat, his round little head
in a cone of light.
He was picking at something, some meaningless road kill
and I desperately wanted to stop and watch him enjoy his meal.
But I drove on, sabotaging all my scaffolding,
sucking down dry plumes of sadness and anger,
missing my family, missing my lover,
mostly
missing myself.