Every day a shooting
signals dinner time. Tonight it’s Marinara sauce
and fettuccine. Old vine Zinfandel
and red lights flashing.
The local hawk

left feathers on the sidewalk from
his latest strike. And now he’s back high
stretching out his wings
on a sunbeam, while

down at TV level there’s another report
from another state of another
incident with
the unthinkable once again the everyday

and the water on the stove
is close to boiling point.
Motive unknown

the newscaster says, just one more
disenchanted individual
armed and free. Darkness
spreads its wings above the mountain

to say it’s time to serve.
It’s all so easy: pick a jar from the shelf, buy
the weapon of choice,

and the first star says Grace
for each victim.

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix since 1978. He grew up in England with watching soccer as a major part of life although he has managed to move on to other interests since then, including reading and writing poetry. Read other articles by David.