Bear Bandits

by Claire Matturro

(previously published at New Verse News)

Maybe it started with that woman—

the one in the fake Tudor—guiding

her Escalade with Greenpeace stickers

through the drive-thru in her fit of fury

hunger on her way home from her divorce,

willing to slum but when she ripped into

the Styrofoam box, a loose fry shimmied

like some pale thin snake. Figuring that

for a cosmic sign, she tossed burger and all

on her garbage can and forgot those bear locks,

which were all too much trouble anyway.

Hank, who didn’t have a name yet,

was this black bear with a keen sense of smell

who followed that waffling whiff of charred meat

all the way to South Lake Tahoe, then

didn’t see any reason to leave, especially

when the lawyer at the turn in the road tossed out

twenty boxes of old girl scout cookies

he’d purchased so his daughter could get a prize.

Hank didn’t mind stale when he dug

through garbage and snuffled up

those cookies, gorging like a teen with

marijuana munchies. In a sugar rush, Hank

ripped through that lawyer’s patio door

to find cannoli and after practically snorting

them, rolled on the floor in bear rapture,  

slamming a whole shelf of knock-off

Lladro ballerinas into shards on the stone floor.

When that pretty couple on the far side

of the lake forgot to put their quiche

in the fridge, Hank found the four-cheese blend

exquisite and there was no going back

to rooting out grubs or scratching his tender nose

in berry brambles or standing in cold water catching

those salmon with their slimy skins. No,

now dubbed Hank the Tank, he

took up burglary to support his gourmet tastes, 

smashing his 500-pound black bear body through 

doors and windows easy as a wrecking ball to get

those oatmeal raisin cookies and steaks 

left out to thaw and pizza in greasy boxes.

He once eyed some bourbon, but

its sharp smell confused him, yet the

stash of coke in the sugar bowl

drove him mad and he crashed his big head

right through the wine cooler and

that’s how he developed a taste for merlot.

The Tahoe vigilantes plotted and pushed

the game control squads to have him shot,

though of course they called it euthanized

as if killing with a better name

would be any less dead for Hank, but

imagine their surprise when DNA showed

Hank the Tank wasn’t the only thief

but three bears bandits were roaming and raiding

like rambunctious kids on a dare

and with an eye for pizza. People whose homes

were not being trashed rose to defend Hank

and his bear buddies, who after all,

had not bitten or hurt a single person.

Meanwhile, in a cool wine bar with ferns

and folk singers, a California kind of guy

nibbles gouda with gluten-free crackers

and writes lyrics to make Hank a hero.