Ode to Willy

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Wide eyed Willy with whiskers gone pale


Stands taught, tight and tame as a muskrat’s tail


Once snipped and stitched with a nimble hand


Willy takes his place before hearth rug and fan  


 


Barren brains aren’t bothered by woes of the field


By wet winter wanderings and the spoils they yield


Not by heat, hunger or hindsight of what is or what was


Just by shadows that dance as the coals’ glow is lost


 


His friends stand tall on shelves high and low


They stand there for hours as the stories go


Just he sits down on hearth covered floor


Moved by the mistress, that wished it were so


 


“His tint has gone shabby, he’s missing an eye!”


 “He’ll be less noticed there by the fireside”


So down he was set, at the mistress’ bequest


His once grand seat made all the more less


 


Now dust coats his fur that once shown like rubies


And once on his paw the house cat did, yes, pee


Poor Willy still stands and does so silently


For Willy is glad that he just gets to be


 


His dead eye and twisted grin


Might make most men’s mind turn sick within


But heartily treasured, blanched pupil or not


Is the dust fed body of the wily Willy Fox.


 


 


(I originally wrote this as a tiny story which consisted of just the last stanza, but then a story emerged of how the fox, after years of wear and tear, transitions from top shelf to floor and what it means to be inanimate.  This could probably use a re-write and I wouldn't mind hearing a voiceover, pretty please)

Created: Aug 04, 2012

Tags: ashes2ashes, fox

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