Song for Guns & License

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.
It’s painless. 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 brushes against my leg,
poor thing limps on a square peg.