Paper mill town closed down.
Sporting goods store the big draw.
Hunters shop for camouflage,
a new barrel gauge. Deer season.
Six months here,
I’m in a red chair with a red number,
clutch a California driver’s license,
my ID for forever.
Insurance says I have to turn myself in,
time to cheer for the Saints, the home team.
I watch a stray cat spread its claws,
lick its orange striped paws.
In the office, cell phones ring the blues.
A man calls my number from his booth.
He checks my birth certificate,
tells me to take two steps
back for a picture next to a flyer,
a raffle to raise money for school kids.
The prize, a Stoeger 3500 28-inch barrel,
a shot gun and hunting rifle.
I’m handed a new license.
Not a bad shot. On the way out,
the stray cat brushes against my leg,
limping.
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