In the sun my pupils narrow to graphite slivers,
Loping among the dead steel oaks I crouch, a cautious beast,
The snarl, the growl waiting impatiently
in my ashy throat, causes the corners of my mouth to twitch and vibrate, restless;
the froth behind my tongue thickens and whips itself into a bubbly foam I can feel slipping warm from my wet lips.
My mane is not the glory it once was; its shagged and tatty remnants I have flung as a veil over my face,
Shielding me from prying and intruding stares of ugly and forgettable strangers.
I have lost so much: my regal coat,...