Turkey Shoot at the Big Apple

Soil holds its breath under blacktop
remembering the turkey shoot
where the cowboys of the suburbs once came
wraithed in bourbon-misted breath
blood in the fingertips
twitching to the trigger,
itchy for the bullseye, for the
looks of the neighbors’ wives
in the cider booth
the backslapping armed men 
in the broad day
gunsmoke rising
shots taken
casings falling in gentle earth
holes drilled one after another until
finally, the winner, the big turkey
taken home in a crate
for the carving.

Blood thick
with the excess of Halloween sugar
she steps from the Land Rover
onto the black tar
all the children rushing to the mall
for gifts they didn’t earn
from their daddies who make a killing
from the blood of the living

the soil just a memory now
under the crush of five thousand cars.

About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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