We’ll Be Down to Bare Bones Soon

It’s been a long, hot year
Down here. The woods this fall
Are more browned bronze than gold.

Some days I make these poems,
Like meals for one or two,
Quick, with a bit of care,

Just to eat, since I do.
Just a meal. I like it
This way. No fans, plain fare.

But fall does tend to bring
Blues with all the warm hues.
Don’t lie. You’ve felt it, too.

There’ll be guns in these woods,
Soon, and deer on the roads,
And work to do. Same old,

Same old. In fall, wild game
Serve fair game for the tame.
What meat’s left on these names?