Jack Mitchell: ‘a fox’ and ‘a forgotten victim’

a fox

posted in every hare and hound
they all know the cut of my face,
my predilection is unnerving
the word is out, he’s in the guineas

my snout is known from pictures
that capture the image closely
—steely, unfettered eyes
a shock of hair like muffs, the ears

we come into dosh, we fire the flare
and nothing changes that history,
the news is known and batted round
he’s there again, ready and game

the mugshot in the script
the dearth of what I’m worth
from a gloat to a sudden soupçon,
wanted for every penny I spent

and every redirection, every
scramble through the bramble,
each backtrack and creek diversion
right to the end … pound for pound

Jack Mitchell

a forgotten victim

my neighbour in Murbah had a cat
we weren’t supposed to have pets
in this block of flats;
he had taken to feeding this one,
a stray, and called him Tom

the water rising, Tom went missing
there was 12 inches in the backyard
and one inch to inundation,
we kept the back screen-door open
in case; and set about our latish plans

then Tom was there, on the settee
wet as a shag, in need of a towel down
a touch of hope then … with evacuation
resettlement to the motels
my friend never saw him again

we heard he was still in the street
back to being a stray, some fed him
and good to be had in hunting rabbits,
but water is anathema to a cat
and there was lots of that

Jack Mitchell