The way of the Werewolf

My anger decides to crash the car
but I see the future on your face
and sink its wheels in the soft verge,
engines revving but no motion,
steam hissing from my hands.
 
I slam the door and we walk,
pull my jacket tight against the cold,
keep off the moors they said;
but I need the bite,
the synapse of a full moon
to rage myself into a creature
that tears open old wounds,
snarls scars onto tree trunks.
 
After the vicious slaughter
the fevered night passes,
morning brings its cold shiver  
lay fetal amongst our blood  
and sore bones.

We wait for the pick-up truck,
coffee cups filled with remorse,
start the car and sit silently
hoping the heater  
will clear the windscreen,
the radio reminds us  
to try and be human.