Mumps

Mumps, I tickle
what’s left of your fur:
king losing his crown
on the stinking rug,
thin graft of lamplight
beneath the stair.

No use struggling
as Mr Seams
lights up the fire, as
Thomas, skimming
The Racing Post, concurs
'This here dog’s life is passing…'

Mumps, your paw is rotten,
jaw, forgotten.
Soon to be like liver
hanging in a butcher’s shop.
We wait for Seams to sharpen
his claw, his jack,

to clean the molten tacks,
as his trolley squeaks;
as charcoal reddens your eye.

Wrap your tail around my hand
before he snips, before your
long ears, yesterday
dipping the water bowl,
get parted like some young tart's lips.

I won’t stop him. I’ve been here before.

Mumps, your time is upon you.
I’ve come to close the door.