For Jackie
And so you poke it with your sister's hockey stick:
a ginger prod just beneath the ribs
in its soft, banded paunch.
Nothing.
It continues to doze.
It's blocking the road,
hamhock haunches vibrating
with every snore,
its head the size of a dustbin,
its tail wound round a sign that says:
Children Crossing.
No one wants to get any closer.
There is talk of calling the fire brigade.
You watch the brown tusks
as they scrape in its mouth,
crack the seal on a Lucozade.
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