They peer before caves, curious as wolves,
drooling slightly, anticipating feasts.
Their quarry resides on racks and shelves,
is frocks and socks, trousers and jackets.
Females’ eyes narrow, feline;
males’ heads bob, canine.
Bargain-hunting, they fall in packs on tables
strewn with scraps and rags,
leftovers from last year’s must-haves.
Cubs queue before tents pitched
as if at a jousting tournament that reek
of hot nuts, sauce-drizzled crepes and candy floss
while their dams loll in herds sipping Wolf Blass
and nibbling paninis as the sires munch
chips and steak, supping at beer pitchers.