Caribou Dreams of A Manly Supper
He walked along the rows of suburban houses. He
was 17 years old. Gradually, evening soaked up the colors
of the day and the houses took on a mythical warmth; each
window glowed. Surely these ovens were brick warm with
supper. These were no French fries! No potpies here!
Caribou wouldn't have it! These would be porridge dinners
and strong staff bearing men come home from the grasslands
where they labored. The women would be big boned and grand!
Hand on a wood spoon, her eyes drifting towards the
children like a falling of leaves. Forearmed Caribou
lays aside his staff, reclines by the fire and tells of
the creation of the stars, the death of Actaeon and the
pride of Achilles. Later on beneath quilts, their little
faces pink blush the darkness, the door closes slowly
In the back of Caribou's skull a sleeping dog browns
before a hearth.
Caribou snapped his fingers and laughed out loud. Life
would be simple. After a few turns around the globe
on a whaler. After a close call with the headhunters
of New Guinea. After the spine tingling finish at Le
Mans, the breathless blonde, the casino money intrigue
and love on her brown body on ocean in evening.
After sewing fantastic oats in the world's most far flung
corners, he'd grab a blonde pig‑tailed babe and head for
Heidi land, milk goats and learn the secret of the Alpines
from old shepherd men with long gray beards.