November Deer Camp

The woods are wet, leaves are quiet from soft showers.

November Deer Camp                  

                                                I.m. of Pappy, George and John

The woods are wet, leaves are quiet from

soft showers.  Six stags, still warm, hang, tongues out,

heads down, along the porch.  Inside, a shaded

gas lantern casts a circle through a fog

of blue – from fragrant Turkish pipe tobacco,

and cheap twisted Parodi cigars - hovering

above a green felt-covered gaming table.

The game is poker. Its paraphernalia clutter

the table – chips (red white and blue) and cards                                           9

scattered among empty bourbon glasses,

and half filled ash trays.  Smells from the wood stove,

as deer liver, bacon, onions simmer,

overpower stale tobacco smoke

and wool soaked from hunting in the rain.

The clock face flaunting only 5’s admonishes

“Drinking Allowed Only After 5.”

The picture of marines raising the stars and stripes

on Iwo Jima hangs above the stove.                                                      18

“I sighted in Sy’s two-seventy after breakfast.

A quarter covered all three shots,” boasts Pappy.

“That barrel is well bedded,” George observes.

 “A case of damn good shooting,” Pappy growls.

Army, draws on his pipe exhaling perfect    

smoke circles, comments, “Michael, your Parodi

looks like something a fox left on a stone

wall.” 

            Mike, unshaven, chewing on the black

wet butt, retorts, “It beats that perfumed ladies

lace you’re smoking.”                                                                               29

                                           Jared changes the subject:   

“I heard him (crashing down through pines) and headed

south to cut him off as he crossed the clearing.

A downhill shot, two hundred yards, right through

the ribs. I found the hair plug, followed up

the trail of blood.  He ran a hundred yards,

collapsed, lungs filled with blood.  No need to bleed

him out.” 

                 Heads nod at Jared’s story, his

skilled hunting, running target shot.

Ethan bangs the cards on felt

impatiently demanding, “Are you in?”                                                            40

We hear the truck come up the drive.  It’s Kent

returned from town with groceries.  Rushing in,

he’s agitated, grim faced: “The President has been shot

and killed in Dallas.”

                                                No one looks up from poker. 

Ethan calmly asks, “How many cards?”

                                                                                                                       

“I’m really serious.  Not a joking subject.       

Come listen yourselves on the radio in the truck.”

We all walk out and shiver ‘round the cab. 

His death’s the only story on the air   

and one by one file back inside, chastened.                                                   50

It’s quiet at the table, cards face down.