I saw a dead fox in the road today, in between the coming and going lanes, how a lady of the house would find the sickness of their cleaner an inconvenience. The roadkill had been lustre and bushy-fluffed, with a healthy red glow worthy of taxidermy when I had cycled past fresh in the morning. Now a few hours later, I couldn’t look. It had reduced in size like good boiled sauce, and had crimson tendrils flaying off in Expressionist lines. Mangled and diminished, the forced puberty from girl to woman, an opportunity lost, how through all the chores and chores some don’t enjoy the home/life, exhausted when night-time knocks for its ferry fare.