DEATH OF MY FOX

Did the laughing at the wake irk like donkey brays?
Did the feral yellow of the faux-roses get my goat?
Did the staggered cortege remind me of hungry cows?
Did the lustre of the wood strangely dog me?
Did the wailing of practiced grieving strain like caterwauling?
Did the coughing of the smokers out-caw crows?
Did the side-aisle whispering offend like vipers?
Did the minister’s congested breathing sound like an owl?
Well yes, but nothing unhinged me like the image
of her desperate arm
pushing at the shower curtain
as I,
towel in hand,
ribbed her for making noises
like a pregnant mare.