Thug

We meet at dusk. 

A muscly thug,

built low;

I always steal my friend's line - 

"they're built like a coffee table."

We stare at each other, frozen. 

This isn't like The Animals of Farthing Wood, 

more like Face/Off.

Your striped face

mirrors my June tan lines. 

It's a hot night, and because of you

I can't get in my front door.

I'm a bottle of cava down.

I stumble back and spooked, you run. 

You, mystical urban badger,

are giving none of the thoughtful Fleabag fox.

I text my friend whose house I've just left, 

saying "Jesus, fuck!"

Articulate at eleven thirty and mildly drunk, I am not.

I know, I know we paved over your land. 

You're making the best of where you've been displaced.

Our lawns are all-you-can-eat buffets, 

and you want to gorge. 

Off you run into the night,

a cartoon burglar,

I envision you carrying a bag of swag.