Sir Reynard Wainwright of Kalinga Park

Flibbery flobbery
Zofia-from-Wooloowin
stands in her classroom on
Thursday at nine.
Teacher says, serious,
“Pick me a creature that
lives like Bruce Wayne with a
double life shine.”

Snickety snackety
all of the other kids
reach for the dragons and
wolves with a scar.
Unproblematic,
Zo picks a fox instead,
Sir Reynard Wainwright, the
local park star.

Wobblepop wallaby
Sir Reynard Wainwright is
king of Kalinga and
lord of the Brook.
Anthropomorphically
Facebook and Instagram
turn him to mascot with
one decent look.

Clankety plankety
Noticeboard posting wars,
three blurry photos of
fox on the path.
Hyperconnectivity
feeds every comment thread,
“Sweet little darling” then
“Vermin of wrath.”

Jellyfish jamboree
Miffy the Santoro
house cat goes missing on
cold Sunday night.
Simultaneometry,
garden beds ripped apart
make half the suburb feel
sure they are right.

There once was a group from Kalinga
That typed with a very quick finger.
One post about meat
Turned into a heat
That could make a full saucepan boil dinger.

Kookaboom kangaroo
Council books out the hall,
PowerPoint bullet dots,
ranger on stage.
Institutionality
wraps up a killing plan,
“Humane relocation” leaks
quiet, hot rage.

Marmalade manatee
urban control bloke brings
thick arms, small eyes and a
shiny steel cage.
Inevitabubble
hangs in the stale-lit air,
fox in a box feels like
line on a page.

Pigeon-toed poltergeist
Zo with her runner knees
opens a notes file and
titles it “Routes”.
Cartographically
she tracks his bin-night runs,
holes under fences and
favoured pursuits.

Wriggity rugbyboot
Reynard times rubbish nights,
Thursday on this side and
Wednesday next door.
Hypermethodical,
nose at each leaning lid,
hearts stay asleep while he
tours every floor.

Gobbledy goalpost
late near the tennis courts
two tense men mutter with
backpack in hand.
Chain-of-events-a-tron
starts when a brush of fur
tilts the bag sideways and
wrecks their small plan.

There once was a fox by the court
Who treated the creek like a fort.
One flick of his tail
Made tough blokes go pale,
And their “business” died short of report.

Possumhead panicky
week after court-side mess,
steel near the garden bed,
straw on the floor.
Incompatibility
tugs at Zo’s ribcage while
Council posts photos that
beg for “do more.”

Cinnamon centipede
hoodie man, no dog there,
walks with a plastic bag
pale in his fist.
Criminological,
hand through the cage-side bars,
pushes his parcel in,
pulls bait from list.

There once was a genius in black
Who fancied a walk with a sack.
He poisoned the meat,
Thought the fox was his treat,
Then his footprints got snapped on the track.

Velociraptor vape
Reynard inspects the trap,
sniffs at the swapped-out lump,
eyes on the ground.
Uninterested he
turns from the tidy bait,
reads all the footprints that
circle around.

Thunderpants thylacine
fox lifts his tail and then
soaks the neat parcel in
sharp yellow stream.
Uncompromisingly
that is a message for
Zo near the fence and a
baiter’s worst dream.

Trolleybus tiramisu
ranger reads tracks in mud,
human and fox steps that
cross by the fence.
Reinterpretation
hits the Kalinga feed,
“Dog baiter out there, this
changes the sense.”

Sausage-roll seraphim
Cafe prints stickers now,
Reynard in mask with a
tiny red crest.
Iconographical,
kids call him “Batman fox”,
hi-vis bloke grumbles that
he is a pest.

The noticeboard swung in a spin,
From “shoot it” to “Reynie for win”.
In one noisy week
He flipped from a freak
To the mascot they slap on their tin.

Quokkity quizzical
back in the classroom now,
Zo waves her hands so the
timeline stays clear.
Meta-narratively
she tells the listening row,
“This is the part where he
shifts all your fear.”

Gloomity glockenspiel
Miffy stays missing and
chickens still vanish from
coops near the park.
Biologicity,
foxes eat smaller things,
Reynard stays hungry when
streets fold to dark.

Caffeine koala-kid
cross-country training day,
Zo with her aching calves
slows near the stream.
Phototelepathy
runs in the quiet look
fox shares with girl as the
sky starts to gleam.

Batmobile budgerigar
Bruce Wayne wears armour and
hides in a costume to
walk through the night.
Counterintuitive,
Reynard stays fox-shaped and
lets the whole suburb keep
naming him right.

Waltzing encyclopaedia
that is her homework piece,
creature with double life,
shadow and gloss.
Intertextuality
puts Gotham pavement on
Kedron Brook pathway with
one Brisbane fox.

F.S.F.