Howdy folks, Jim Fowler back again with a new poem. It's a night poem, and very surreal. Hope you enjoy. One thought of explanation, though I dislike doing that, i lived in Japan for twenty years, so some of their myths make their way into my poems. Werefoxes are a very popular myth. Vixens who turn into women and drain life forces from men.
The scent of lotion suspends above the bed.
Two o-clock. A branch drags across the roof.
In the hall, the night-light trembles and goes out.
I follow her footprints pressed into the dust
of ancient passages, and pass doors she passed,
open doors, she opened. I envision a thousand
hands and doorknobs and vacant rooms.
At a grocery store aisle, her image appears
in plastic windows of wide egg noodles.
I rend a box and stomp the brittle ribbons,
and lose myself in thoughts of stroganoff.
Three foxes dance before a crusted throne.
The risen haze reveals them as soulless
women. My dirty feet slap a rhythm,
I hope the hall around the corner understands.
At a bulletin board layered with photographs
of the lost, I search but so many faces are hers.
I run and turn and turn but cannot find the way.
Time consumes the chase. Impatience presumes
she’s gone. I pound my head upon the floor and laugh.