My uncle craved the hunt and dreamed of herds
with bristled hides and tusks to mount. He paid
for tours and veteran guides to track his prey.
The squeal of gelded hogs released from trucks
incited primal urges. “Neck,” he aimed.
The slogan read, “No kill, no pay.” He held–––
his breath, and shot. He felled the trophy hog.
A catered lunch and breakfast filled his gut,
before they skinned and dressed the kill. His take
was smoked and packaged–– stories he would tell.
© 2011 Kim King
KSquaredPoetry 