Two poems, one has a goose

Poetry

I've never seen this kid’s face

They'll nod
outside Shopper's 
folded in half
blocking their 
cardboard sign

Blue locks
poke from
under a hood—
bathroom dye job
to match
the stick-and-poke
distraction from scars

Temporary friends
hose it all
down the drain
all that
stolen blue
til the money
runs dry
and kick—

There's a mother
somewhere
remembering the coos
and fat legs
and birthday parties
wondering
what she did wrong

Maybe a lack of mother
Blue Locks
must imagine
what her hug
or even 
what a true friend
must feel like
without the soot
on the bottom 
of the spoon

Wawa, ON

Home of the giant Canada goose statue
and a man who, upon exiting his vehicle,
had the paunch of a red-blooded Canadian
     and the pale ass of a—
     unemployed
     pale
     ass.
(His sweatpants did not sit at or above the hips.)
We were lucky to get away from that gas station
with no more damage to our retinas
than a couple of reflective cheeks—
but I bet that guy's a hoot.
I'd rather get a beer with him
than go to some some expensive cafe
where they don't stock cream
only pseudo-milks
     and the atmosphere is somewhat cultish
     and the walls are too nice 
     and the person talking to me has 
     dead, natureless eyes
     like they permanently reflect
     a muted tiktok feed
     with or without the phone.
At least sweatpants-down-his-ass-guy
had, in his youth,
a sturdy upright stance
and no intellectual delusions
nauseating to listen to.

Tell me about the time you thought you saw
     sasquatch
Wave back to me with a smile on your face
     though we're total strangers
Your house probably smells like stale beer
     cigarettes
     bug spray
     yesterday's soup
     pine sap
     and wet dog (very friendly)
I'll go to your fish fry
listen to rude jokes and laugh
there's a deck of cards worn grimy at the edges
     next to the crib board
     and picture of someone holding a really big fish
     circa 1974
     and you reminisce
     about the job you used to have
     when your back was good
     and that truck
One time you tipped your boat
or hunted stump moose
     drunkenly
or how your cousin accidentally hit that truck
(Same cousin gave you that taxidermied coyote rug
     in lieu of an apology.)

Almost hit a moose outside White River
home of the big Winnie the Pooh statue
(the original Winnie the Pooh, bear)
the last gas station for hours.
It was just standing there!
The moose, I mean—though I guess the statue was, too.

Deep, starry skies
     and winding roads
     and isolation
     and tall trees
     and really big rocks
while we white knuckle it
remembering the time I almost died as a kid
inukshuk watched on rock cuts, both sides, and transports
     two lanes
     lead foot
     rubber flight to the Soo
     and my driver
     was (rumour has it) drunk.

Were those eyes in the bush—
Definitely—
Definitely sasquatch.
Now pull over
l've had to piss since the turn to Manitouwadge.

PS, I’ve got books:

The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick - Literary fantasy - the ebook is on sale for the start of this year’s SPFBO (it’s a contest! See my recent post about it!)

Pallas - Scifi with a dash of body horror

Pull Me Under - heavy metal portal fantasy - completed serial right here on Substack