002 — Classified: Elderly Man seeks Meals | Talon Z. Gray

---

Ain’t no knock on the door in three days now.
Used to be Miss Carla’d bring that meatball spaghetti—Lord, she made it with them deer tomatoes from her own garden, bless her heart.

Apple pie still warm, wrapped in foil like it was gold. But she moved on.

She couldn't stomach that powdered milk no more—said it smelled like drywall and tasted like chalky promises.

They asked, "what happened to her?"
"Where's Miss Carla?"

Sort of an odd pause there,
"...she was brown."
An eerie silence no one wants to recall now...

(Braces wheels with foot. Clicks lock into place.)

Now it’s just us.
Just the old ones.
Waitin'.
Lookin'.
Wheelin’ ourselves in circles 'round the same four chairs and a busted card table.

Last week old Larry tried to sell me a spoonful of his corn.
One spoon.
Said he was savin’ the rest for Sunday prayers.
We used to be neighbors. Now we barter like back in the coal strikes.

They say The Healer fixed it all.
Said we don't need real food no more, just this government-issued, holistic, micro-filtered milk powder blessed by the well to do.

Well I don’t do no bag drink,
and I damn sure don’t call chalk and water supper.
My mama’d rise from the grave just to slap me one or two...

I ain’t a dog.
I fought for this country, lost my brother to black lung in the Kanawha mines, raised three boys who moved away...

Yeah. Soon as they could... they gone.

Now they say I should be grateful for a scoop of soy dust and a pamphlet on working out my legs.

They took Meals on Wheels, took the church socials, took the butcher, the baker, even the man who used to bring guitar strings down from Roanoke.

My kids.
All gone now.
They gone now.
And I'm here.

And them high-up folks wonder why we’re bitter.
Why we sound like ghosts in our own homes. I’ll tell you why—it’s 'cause we are.

This place used to sing, now it just hums low and sad, like the mine whistle that don’t blow no more.

I ain’t beggin’. Never have, never will.
But if there’s a place a man can roll his chair where the biscuits ain't made of politics and the soup don’t come with a disclaimer...
well, I’d be mighty obliged to hear 'bout it.
How's about it?

Anyone?
Spare a little, spare a lot?
Spare a little, spare a lot?
Spare a little, spare a lot?
I can turn that into a song anyone will listen.

Go on, then.
You keep going.
We got plenty o' sawdust.
Hopefully, we'll see you next time, god bless—

(Wind steals his Red hat with grotesque text. Can’t chase it. Just watches it tumble down the empty road.)

Elderbot 230.12.666.867 | Meal Log Unfulfilled