The Bravest Among Us

Old homes with new wood ramps
built on. I see one in the country,
isolated. Wheelchair. Someone no
longer up to farm chores. Living
out their days. In Big Smiths and
and a gimme cap. Slip-on shoes.
He gets the mail, reads all of it,
even the T-Mobile phone stuff, the
“Your car warranty has expired!”
The Sam’s Club brochure. The TV
is on inside, mainly for the noise,
the laughter and the clapping. He’s
tired, just getting the mail; almost
got stuck outside. Embarrassing.
Like the time he was still getting
around and fell asleep standing up,
a milk bucket in each hand and a
neighbor saw and stopped and
helped him inside, took the milk
to the milk house. Milked the
other cows, turned them out. The
cows are gone. Time for meals
on wheels. Paid for. Medicaid.
If he could reach the gun rack on
the wall he’d take down the Ithaca
featherweight 16-gauge pump, but
would not use it. Nope. Not for that.
But it’s for sale, now. Good light
gun, well treated. He would like to
oil it, wipe it down, hear the action.
It should sell without any problem.
KC vs. Chargers at seven, on free TV.
He thinks to go outside on the ramp.
Listen to the birds a while. He likes
the outdoor sounds. Take a Bud Lite.