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Wendigo1

Dame_Edna_Place-nightOld Wendigo gets along-In the streets alone he scratches a living

With raccoons he talks and takes desperate dinners in the alleys behind restaurants

Like an old man smokes old cigarettes and watches the sad piss of vagrants drain

into the gutter in a crisp and cruel cold as he walks non-chalantly in the empty

mornings of winter: her cold sky wide open.

And he’s calling to the crow for news and swearing at the degenerate seagulls

And feels sad for the ugly brown streets and wonders what people do in the glass

towers all day and goes on his way; Pulling bodies from the river and eating the

delivery boys one by one-eating the soldiers and junkies and the night runners-all

pushed around by rude stoops -like winter the Old Wendigo eats them-like exposure

scrapes them raw like a handless animal he eats the wet flesh cold, under the bridge

by the river-young Wendigo full of stupid wonder at the stone and metal prisms and

all their angles and simple crenulations carved into being with stoned precision and

magic metal. Should eat more but he talks to dogs and can’t bring himself to bite

some days-Prefers grinning at the nattering of squirrels and stirring the little pot

of their bickering with studied interjections.

Followed the train tracks in when he left home like the coyote and the coon and the

rare-bumbling-bear driven out of trees by swarming honey bees ages ago-

Down the track-the steel rails went- burning in the heavy belly of the summer-

above the tip tops of long pine shone the endless sun -bare rock baking underfoot he

followed those tracks -in. Old wendigo walking by you in the street-only as strange

as a stranger-but if you don’t provoke a wendigo it won’t bite you and don’t let him

smell your blood or he’ll make mischief and some demonic singer somewhere will

sing G-L-O-R-I-A while he gnaws your face off against the garbage bag-black

backdrop of the empty night.

 

Copyright 2015 Duncan Griffiths