There's a Bigfoot in the Garden

Didn't think the garden was that overgrown
but there he was,
hidden behind the sunflowers
and peering out
with a "who me?" look:

There's a Bigfoot in the garden.

Looking all raggedly shaggy
and Sasquatchy
smelling like moss
and the family dog
(who's upstairs hiding
in the girl's room).
How'd he get here?
Hitch-hiked?
Escaped from Bigfoot smugglers?
Hidden here by Greenpeace?
He's not talking.
Probably can't talk, though
he does sigh, grunt, and imitate
bird whistles and wolf calls.
Hell of a mimic.

The kids shared
their play-doh and
for each of them
he shaped a rabbit,
its fur incised
with a thick fingernail
and handed to each child.

Maybe we can teach him
how to mow the lawn,
though I wouldn't wish that job
on even a giant Hominid,
and he is doing a swell job
of keeping the garden fertilzied.

We've told the Home Owner's Association
that he's our autistic
nephew from Uzbekistan.
They're getting suspicious, but
still not sure how to deal
with a presumed-mythical
cryptozoological wonder
hiding out in suburbia.

They'll never take him, the bastards,
before that happens
we'll send him back out
somehow, on the
Bigfoot Underground Railroad
to the next friendly family
with an overgrown
backyard garden