Bigfoot Happy Hour
Only the fluttering pages
of a few songbooks left.
At the bar, the large, gawky males
idle over jigsaw puzzles:
sailing ships in profile, sad streamers
adrift on a wedge of unbelievable blue.
Tired of running, the rugged womenfolk
nodded off hours ago. Where else to dream
on a chilly night, the planet
hurtling down invisible tracks
going God knows where or why?
How about a little mood music, then!
Something snow-burdened,
full of minor chords and scattered bird feathers-
the forest primeval to bewitch
their furless kind when they come for us,
the glimpse of a patient vision,
an intimacy they would die for.
-Sigman Byrd
Only the fluttering pages
of a few songbooks left.
At the bar, the large, gawky males
idle over jigsaw puzzles:
sailing ships in profile, sad streamers
adrift on a wedge of unbelievable blue.
Tired of running, the rugged womenfolk
nodded off hours ago. Where else to dream
on a chilly night, the planet
hurtling down invisible tracks
going God knows where or why?
How about a little mood music, then!
Something snow-burdened,
full of minor chords and scattered bird feathers-
the forest primeval to bewitch
their furless kind when they come for us,
the glimpse of a patient vision,
an intimacy they would die for.
-Sigman Byrd