[Catherine Tufariello]

Food

Stiffening in dried blood, half a dozen swung
from his belt loops and a full dozen more
lumped out his crocus sack. He limped, foot-sore,
that gangly, felt-hat black whose thin coat hung
like something scarecrows wore, while evening dew
had soaked the legs of fraying overalls
beggar lice clung to. Sure, there were old walls
between us, but he nodded: "Howdy-do."
He froze, then; dead slow, he laid supper down.
I squatted with my .12 gauge, scanned the brush:
nothing—until his one shot .22
ripped up a leap of guts and furry brown.
He fetched his kill and tipped his hat, no rush,
then slipped back in the woods to skin and stew.