tea with the winter guest

They were cooking & pickling ripe regrets
in good mason jar tradition
when they heard a massive fist
gently pleasantly knocking upon their door.

Now is the season when yetis
visit apartments:
premature Santas
from the far north.
The north star an icicle
upon the foggy TV image rubbing window.

Stan Gertrude glanced at his big dog
pawing & stamping lids on glass
paws and towels dextrous as
violet steam flickered in her eyes.
She gazed back at his tensed hand
trembling unlocking opening the knob the door.

The ivory hair rubbed all corners of their doorway.
A massive head peered down with an inflated laurel
intertube atop the cocked ears black in the cold
as if to mock them both
in their sheetrock cave
of oven fires and lampshade shadows.

Behind immense bulk of fur claw and muscle saw Stan
a small flock of young chickens
bulging dilated eyes back his way
as they raced on stubbly feet around the corner
out of sight with a feather left floating.
An exclamation point in the frosty air.

Floppy ears up
in alarm the dog
unlids a jar of tea leaves
cryptically labeled.
Hefting her tail.
She upends it into a boiling pot
upon the red coil
into roiling regrets there.

The yeti wrinkles his nose
and slows
his massive paw with which
he was about to pat
Stan's bald head.

Pulls in the claws
stoops quite low
and squeezes
squeezes
in
rubbing the intertube above
and knuckles against walls.

The furred giant
busts the bed flat
as he sits down
there
and mumbles
looping arms and legs
smaller
like a collapsing 8.

When the boiling mass
fluid & leaves
consumate permeate complete
and cool
dog pours
three cups:
one for a subdued yeti
one for a speechless Stan
one for herself.

They and the night pass
sipping
slipping out
of furred and unfurred hides
onto rays of the polar light.