Most people are people,
but a few are animals,
they tell me...
They point out to me
the ones who are people.
They tell me I am not a person,
but a creature.

They say my hair is not people hair,
but creature dags and snags;
that my face is not the face of a person,
but the softish velvet muzzle of a beast.

I think they are right.
I think that might be how
we recognized each other- you and I,
disguised in our grey people-clothes
but secretly happy with our own smooth creature-skins;
taught to speak words,
but only really listening
to those grunts and moans,
the guttural groans, whistles and sighs
imperceptible to the human ear.

And,
though instilled with the need for rules and laws,
like everybody else,
we were only ever contained
by the firm touch of hand on flank,
of thigh on thigh.

You and I are creatures
that snuffle and prod
at each other's rye-grass-scented necks;
we sniff out each other's secrets,
track each other's spore with a cunning eye.

We even sit in coffee shops
sipping from proper coffee cups,
the other patrons unaware
of the invisible brushing of skin,
brushing of fur erect from a million baying follicles.