TERROR FIGHTING STANCE

I stumble upon the wolf by the dumpster.
Squat, hairy mask with Ginsu jowls, sniffing rifle.
The sight of the wolf petrifies my mechanism.
Moreover, I am carrying two especially rancid bags
of garbage from an exquisite ration of loam.
Slowly, I extend my arms in an attempt to puff up.
I concoct an intricate rebar of animal fortaleza.
I walk toward the dumpster, evacuating fear pheromones.
If this is about territory, a large shadow can anchor flight.
And, I think, this housing development is called The Presidential.
There's no way I can die, mauled, in a habitat with that moniker.
(The Presidential is not just one of those modular ghettos with
the designation of sylvan masturbation groves [The Meadows, et. al.])
But, naturally, appearing larger, more menacing, than a gray wisp?
Faced with a toss-off jockey like myself, the wolf retreats to its shrubs.
I am left holding two bags of garbage in terror fighting stance.