Ferret

I can still feel its five clawed feet
on my shoulder, its snout stuck straight out,
with its tail stiff as a brush behind. Balancing.

Once out of its cage
and in the kitchen, it did the War Dance,
jumped up and down
- yip yip yip
mouth opening and closing
moving its head from side to side,
the deadly white teeth showing.

Once, it bit me and didn’t let go.
Its jaws were strong as sprung steel.

For days afterwards the kitchen would smell
of unspayed ferret. Pungent and sharp.
And I was to blame. But
it was worth it -
the smell of excitement, of release.
The smell of the yip yip yip.

Tony  Mckeown

If you have any thoughts about this poem,   Tony  Mckeown would like to hear them