Tonight, at my dinner date,
I kept thinking about the sasquatch,
and in particular: what is it? where is it now?
It’s not that my date was hirsute.
I could tell from his chin that
he had less hair on his legs than I do in winter
so perhaps it was the hairs clinging
to the mussels in their tomato marinade
or the fact that the first peach had
fallen from the tree in the courtyard.
But re the sasquatch, I would throw
hunks of steak onto my begonias if I knew I would
be keeping a legend alive in the process,
and my garden is a patch of my soul.
Finally, I would have an act of faith!
Conversation eluded us like
the mussels did my fork
and I wanted to shrug and say:
We have different coloured tongues.
But there was a pot plant in my peripheries
that when I squinted, as I do when bored,
looked like the hair of my best friend at Kindergarten
and I chorused to myself:
Jenny McDonald!—she had
gone into a coma and woken up with a
longing to paint chrysalises—it was almost
something one could make
a conversation out of.
But nothing passed between us, not even the bread.
If you imagine the sasquatch always on the run,
you reach a point of empathy, but he
was just sitting there with his mouth closed
and I found myself hoping he would foot the bill,
or be swept up the Empire State in a silk dress
that would make the most of his pearl-bare legs.