Werewolf In London

It’s a bit of a pull running up from Maida Vale to Saint John’s Wood but my legs feel no pain. Back then I had corded limbs that could run on the liquid fuel of feckless youth. Running shoes push spirited blood up into a glowing muscular brawn. Speeding past Abbey Road studios listening to Warren Zevon hammering a piano, his hair flowing, the music coming together with werewolf howls. Mind and body unwinding like a clockwork ******. A woman with a pink headband rests on a pavement bench. She has also been running. I sit at her feet, she pets my long hairy ears. my lolling tongue slurping her hand, but I must leap away to bay at many moons until age gnaws away the very marrow of these my last dog-days.