hunting is the new vegetarianism

the happy hour arrived ferociously
like bullets.
like shot, spreading and wide
impregnating the sky and whatever
happened to be flying by

they tipped cold ones back, and smiled
together.
alone, they couldn’t have
devoured such flesh so quickly
but in close quarters
the hunger of their feral guts
rampaged.

what remnants?
what scraps, what canine feed,
what manners,
what fires needing extinguishment,
what dirty plates and knives,
what bottles, what caps,
what diluted flesh, what blood droplets,
what life?

the happy hour arrived happily
and consummation, too.
and what remained of scarlet feathers
soon had their glistening hues burned
in the flames of suburbia.
we never left the country,
it seemed, as meat became meal.