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.
