Stump pinks flutter.
Spiral tail’d,
Squeals of Pork echo.
The game thrown open,
gunshots and ricochets,
bursts of blood and rain.
The pinks flutter,
descend in a gyre.
Pigeons unleashed,
Salivating- they rocket
To where the gyre
ends in a thud.
-Cooing, they retrieve.
“Meat!” the decadent gamers cry.
It’s a take away.
Their wives howl back at home,
at wolves that wait patiently
For the gamers’
colonial return.
