A butcher in the city for thirty years
he retired to the suburbs for safety,
trading in his blue shotgun
for a ranch house, barge boards
for vinyl, a Ninth Ward man keeping
pace with neighbors at the mall
"for the health of it," his tee shirt
said, a gift he wore gladly for luck.
Gone from the daily walk a week
last year, he came back on a cane,
hopping across his own shadow
as far as it would take him, the right
leg bandaged from the foot to knee.
Gone again later for longer,
he came back on crutches, his leg
lost from the knee down, taken
by a thief he never saw coming,
soon taking the rest of him, too.
We knew about his wife and family,
his work and the war, the dozen
ways you can cut yourself
in a butcher shop, but no one knew
his last name. No one wants to ask.