Took myself down to the smoky bar on the corner,
And to the old boys and bankers, I’m a stick-out foreigner.
But I know it won’t be long until I belong there,
Just need to find a button-up and fedora to hide my orange hair.

Through the hum of crowds and past the bustle,
Sat the poker men and their talks of hustle,
How only strong men are made out of muscle,
And a heart’s not worth the torture of the tussle.

Tonight is the first time I’m in disguise,
Blending and mending before empty eyes,
My obsidian nose reflecting all their lies,
My pointed ears drowning in my babies’ cries.

That’s when I saw the sulking man approach me,
Place a cigar between my lips and let him stone me.
But instead, he asked if he could know me—
Some kindly company, I guess, he could loan me.

My husky voice began:

“I used to feast myself fancy in the big country,
And everywhere I went, I spent my money.
But since bosses came knocking for their company,
I’ve had to make my weary way into this city.

All my neighbors used to cry about me leaving:
‘I wonder what they’ll do if they catch you thieving.’
But for my losses, I’ve never spent much time grieving—
For a better future, you must know, I still believe in.”

Hand on chest, he replied:

“I come in peace, my dear friend, I’m not a foe.
I don’t wield weapons on the land where your young grow.
And though my heart is heavy, I’ll take your blow,
But indeed, it’s the man above me, not below.”

There I sat beside a lonesome soul about my age,
Whose manager’s making him work for minimum wage.
“What’s it like to be crammed in the corporate cage?”
But I knew the sorry answer he could not face.

Coolly, I said:

“I’ve come to see you’re a puppet on a string.
And what an almighty pain to your soul that must bring.
But to the concrete jungle, you all cling,
And I patiently await the pendulum swing.”

In glazed eyes, he revealed his feeble fears:

“Truth be told, I’ve not seen the night sky in many years.
I have waited all this time for it to clear,
But clarity is not bestowed through casks of beer.

In the city, we wait a lifetime for night to come,
But we’ve gone all cerebral drinking rum,
Waiting to feast on the big bosses’ crumbs,
And evade the beating of nature’s drums.”

Finally, I responded:

“Though I hear you, good man, you’re not alone.
But the industry you submit to has taken my home.
Through golden fields, I can no longer roam,
And my flaky fur is fading to its bone.”

I lifted my hat to reveal what was kept,
And from the leather seat, the sulking man leapt.
His forehead doused in guilty sweat—
The sulking man knew the sins he’d swept.

“I fear you must’ve met me long before,
Tip-toeing in your garden, past your door,
Swarming dusty bins while you snore.

I’m the foreign fox on the street that you ignore.”