What's distant seems closer. Sun deprives windows of their eyes. Streets dip like a bowl rising around a porridge of buildings and hunkering trees, a puff of smoke from a chimney smiles and waves, room's heater clicks on and waits.

Sasquatch slouches toward the city as if the animal remained a man enshrouded, suffering, deprived on account of having access neither to the world of man that he nonetheless senses, nor leaving a cold trail behind.

Moving cautiously, avoiding clods of dog scat and gobs of human spittle, nose pressed against a window, he inhales stuffed turkey, potatoes with gravy, cranberry sauce, salad, hot coffee, pumpkin pie.

Swallow
slowly
                 pick your
teeth, not sensing
     your own
"wild beast odor."

 

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