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One Poem  

Benjamin Niespodziany

Chicago, a National Park

The hunter visited the city and removed her rifle when a beggar approached her. “Sorry,” she said, quickly putting her weapon away. “I thought you were a wolf.” The hunter gave the beggar a granola bar. “Beware of foxes and bears,” she warned, kicking a fire hydrant, noting the flora’s stability.

The hunter continued to walk down the street, her gun over her shoulder. She gripped a walking stick. She drank bug spray. The hunter wore a t-shirt with a picture of a coyote and a prairie that read, “I love a good expanse.”

“I’m not used to seeing other people outside,” the hunter said to herself, a screened safari hat providing her shade. “It gets tricky in a park with this many trails.” The hunter asked a businessman for directions to the nearest duck pond but he rushed right past her. She asked a CEO which way to the watering hole, to the waterfall, but the head honcho hailed a taxi and vanished.

I continued to follow the hunter for a few more blocks, breathing heavy in my grizzly suit, just like she wanted.