With purpose, yet strangely cowed, the fox trots

Past sleeping beggars through the city’s gloom.

He is out of his territory here,

And far from the comfort of what he knows;

So falls back on the bags and open bins.

Scavenging, with teeth as sharp as needles,

He feeds off this wretched underbelly

Like a king, lounging on his shop-soiled throne.

That said, at quiet times he must think back

To countryside routines he left behind

When following that trail to take that turn,

Ignoring pleas from family and friends.

Now he patrols the wastes of instinct’s creed,

Clasping survival by stealth and by greed.