My Bigfoot Newsletter by Peter Sears
My Bigfoot Newsletter comes every month. When it doesn’t,
I call in and often end up with two copies. I give one to Madge
and Bill. They don’t like the Bigfoot Newsletter, but they like
to come over. I say, “How about a round of Rum Rockets?”
“While you’re at it, think about getting yourself a real job,”
suggests Bill. “And why haven’t we seen that nice young
woman again? We like her,” proclaims Madge. Don’t think
I haven’t paused in the woods when I’ve picked up that
rancid scent. For days I stutter, I want to veer off into
the woods. I mention, “Carl Jung has much to say about
Bigfoot.” Madge responds, “Well, that is very nice of Mr.
Jung, but I bet he has a good job and a nice family.” “How
about a Rum Rocket splash down on those ice cubes?” I say.
Bill says, “Darn tootin.” Madge adds, “Oh, who cares.”
I like this story. I like the lead with the Bigfoot Newsletter.
I used to subscribe. Madge and Bill I like for hounding me
with dumb but important questions, like parents, and I like
to invite them over because I am not going to drink alone,
period. I want to let this story find its own way. I can see
how getting rid of Madge and Bill could become difficult.
Madge smiles like a flowerbed, Bill chews on ice cubes.
It gets me thinking of Bigfoot. I like Bigfoot, I like the idea
of running hairy through the woods at night, scaring
the hell out of people. Sure, a little juvenile, but easy
to get to when I’m carting round a ton of tenth-grade
English papers to correct and coming home late and tired
from coaching all afternoon, barely able to read anything
but my Bigfoot Newsletter, while back and forth across
my window sweep the pines towering over my house.
PETER SEARS’ most recent book is Small Talk: New & Selected Poems from Lynx House Press, 2014. He has published poems in Saturday Review, Poetry Northwest, Mother Jones, and The Atlantic. He recently stepped down as Oregon’s seventh poet laureate. He lives in Corvallis, Oregon.