Today's poem is by Brad Ricca

Customs of Golems

Fearing. discovery,
Sasquatch runs into Sears
before the holiday rush
and crouches inside a silver circle
of warm, coddled coats: red, blue, and
popular grey.
As he sits, his teeth on his knees
like a bike chain,
he hears crazy things:
You stop that Sean Michael or
I'll tell Santa and you won't get that
mmmmm again and again. He shivers.
He shivers at the voice.
Tall as maples and wrens.

At night, he searches
for the high, white stars.

After three days, he waits until
the voice is gone and
tears out like gas on fire.
Sure the glass hurts and the alarm is maybe
a bit too loud for his
nocturnal, pursed ears,
but it is winter, after all.
So he takes a coat,
just in case,
leaving twigs, berries, and
twine behind.

Kids are blamed, of course,
but they still end up getting
incredible toys.

Copyright © 2012 Brad Ricca All rights reserved
from American Mastodon
Black Lawrence Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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