The Fox And The Hound Poem by Joe Rosochacki

Who is the fox? Who is the hound?
Has the hunt of prey been won,
Or has it the game just begun.
(As the ticker details the sliding stocks,
above the waterhole where the animals flock)
A true sight to behold,
It seems that most seem to be blind because,
Always within their constant reach, within a grasp,
Is some waitress’s behind--Oh what a lonely lot.
It seems that most can’t remember what they haven’t forgot.
The two musicians, Terry and Mark, play on, give the mic to someone,
The one who always tips them ten dollars, the one that hollers,
“Let me sing a song.”
There is a pesky little barfly that flies from table to table,
To apparently who is rich, well off, professionally secure,
And of sexually able.
Her buttocks must be well insulated by at least an inch,
To prevent the constant pain of a thousand and one pinch.
Yes, who is the fox and who is the hound?
Who are these middle-aged teeny boppers anyway?
Have they reached material success but lost sight of life?
Am I too quick to judge, condemn or say this to man who is working on his fourth wife?
Or may be just a little action for the night?
Twelve martinis and anyone looks good in their sight.
Mostly I question why I’m here.
Maybe to remind myself what I shan’t be,
But one thing remains clear, I do see what can happen to me.
Yes, who is the fox and who is the hound?
Do they hunt each other or do mate?
Salmons swim upstream as if they were in a biological race,
And the whales swim by Baja, Mexico,
Is this the reason they come and go?
There is still a question that abounds,
What the hell am I doing here at the “Fox and Hounds”?

(6-88)