The bar man sniffs me quietly
sensing something awry.
The glass is always half-full for me,
he later tells me as he unhooks
my bra in a dirty alley.
I smile into the frosty darkness.
I’ve been here before and know
I must keep my sharp teeth
under wraps. But I’m easily bored,
and the gin is wearing off.
I press my paws into his pockets,
rub my muzzle against his face,
try to steal a little warmth.
He is panting now, and struggling
with my buttons, biting at my neck,
yanking my skirt a little too high
until it releases
the full glory of my tail.
Julia Webb is a graduate of UEA’s poetry MA and a top notch procrastinator. She lives in Norwich where she teaches creative writing and reads books. She is a poetry editor of Lighthouse – a journal for new writing.
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