So the word went out
that a family of sasquatch,
the bigfoot themselves,
had been sighted
near the Fraser River,
a hill nearby named,
the spot described,
the secret out.

At once the hunters arrived,
each one hoping
to take the first shot,
to be the one to carry home
the unique carcass,
to display the trophies
and the photos
on their living-room walls.

But as soon as the crowd
was assembled
mounties appeared,
arrested all those present
and held them in custody
on a charge of conspiracy
to genocide, even though
not a bullet had been fired.

There were no bigfoot.
The story was a hoax,
a trap set to catch
all those ready to destroy,
to act out the anger
that, despite themselves,
clung to their bones,
oozed from the pores in their skin.

After the mounties
came a team of counsellors,
art-therapists, educators,
priests and revolutionaries,
who led the hunters,
who let the hunters lead,
as they all went hand in hand
out of the 21st century.

Such stories now are common.
The bait is set,
the hook ready on the line,
but always the hunters arrive,
armed with their shotguns,
a gleam in their eyes,
while the bigfoot watch unseen
somewhere in the redwood forests.

Click the link below to read more about the poet
More about Mark

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