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.
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