Boston Bahumagosh

by Richard Stevenson

The Boston Bahumagosh
hasn’t washed in half
a century, it seems.

You can smell ‘im comin’ for blocks.
Matted fur. Big dirty bare feet.
Too hot and hirsute to need clothes.

It’s been a while though. You know
these tree hugger types. A little car exhaust,
and they’re off on a walkabout.

Back to the land. Opposable fingers and thumbs
grabbing blackberries as fast as they can.
Dirty nails grubbin’ in the dirt for tubers.

Of course, they don’t need Netflix
or a sixty-inch flat screen TV
to get their technicolor dream on.

They’ve got psilocybin and peyote…
Down south, they’ve heard, the locals
make a nice ayahuasca tea. They like tea.

The Boston Bahumagosh doesn’t dig
a lot of noise in his crib, so he split
the urban scene for the funky country.

Can’t say I blame him. The city
is no place to raise cryptid kids.
They need trees, a good strong breeze.

Good thing they’re vegan and vegetables
got no noses or legs to book it through the trees.
A waterfall and a bar of soap couldn’t hurt.

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