By tradition, hunters from my neck of the woods – Virginia, Pennsylvania, Ohio and maybe elsewhere
every few years decide that Eastern white-tail deer are no longer worth hunting
so they buddy up - three middle-aged, overweight guys
time, land fenced, deer driven out
save two, more wily, double back, hide
among dense brambles, where we cannot walk
banging pots, noise makers, shooting cap guns,
to chase them through the gap, now forever sealed.
If both or neither grow velvet I can relax,
Risley Hall co-eds kiss their dates
to the sound of the curfew bell.
Last kiss, first kiss, it makes no difference.
All must kiss. Not too passionate,
not too perfunctory. Proper kisses.
The house mother claps her hands.