Quickfoot by Richard Stevenson

Richard Stevenson

Two sightings reports in the rural U.K. –
that’s all you’ve got. No hairy hominid
cell phone camera pics, no scat,
no hair samples. A hairy blur is all.

Not interested in showing up for roll-call –
let alone posing for a selfie with you!
I see – or smell any sweaty aftershave
and I’m off to the nearest cave, Holmes.

No offense, but I’m not the only one who stinks!
You smell of meat and money, dude – old meat,
old money – autumn coloured bales of the stuff
fallen miles from any tree this side of Eden.

Your roads make traipsing through the tulies
a lot easier, true, but I don’t traipse
and I don’t saunter in daylight, dude;
I try to stay as far away from you lot as possible.

I’m fleet of foot because I need to be.
I’m hairy all over because I need to be.
I’ve got big feet because I need to be
firmly planted to the earth there, Holmes.

Don’t need a cell and cement pond
so you can gawk at me all day
in one of your zoos. Don’t need no mod cons
or hair products. No computer, TV, or cell phone… .

What I’ve got I no more own than you
own the breeze. You’re just a swollen bag
of farts, aren’t you? And you’re looking
for a healthy scoop of my fetid finest?!


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