At the Furrier's

The world of claw and fang is here-

Leopards and ocelots and minks,

With what is left of timber wolves,

Marmots, raccoons, and lynx;

Stretched limp on polished tables with

Faint smell! of moth-balls in the air,

Tricked, trapped, and done to death, to lie

In this unlikely lair.

Here ends the trail that started where

Clumped swamp-grass locks a hushed lagoon,

Or noon-sun crisps the veldt, or snow

Climbs dead crags toward the moon.

Ends all the dark lust of the hunt,

The twist of hunger, and the thrill

Of pouncing catch and spurting blood,

The hot joy of the kill.

A suave small man bows from the waist.

"And what would Madame see today?

The sable or the karakul?

The red fox or the gray?"