The shot rings out
as desired.
If they can't spare one
they can't have any.
"Armorer!" his intended customer
three stories below his abode
yells from the ground after firing into the air.
Crouched in a corner of the room
he turns his head toward a mirror
that's aimed at a second one
which delivers the image
of a man standing
in the designated parking spot.
Long ago he outlined it in orange paint
for the use of his patrons.
"Two boxes of of .243 here.
Forty rounds.
I'm seeking .223
or 9," his voice carries
plaintively through the window.
"You know that ran dry months ago,"
he replies as politely as an ammo dealer can.
"How about some .22?"
He envisions this man in tattered clothing
with a rabbit skewed on a poorly whittled spit
above his campfire later on that evening
a tiny hole in the flat skull
courtesy of his offer.
"It's a deal in your favor."
"It'll feed you for the night."
The vagabond presents no argument
approaches the building
waits for the brass man to lower his basket
by a rope that he'd never expected to use this way
and deposits his half of the trade.
The recipient counts the cartridges
checking primers and projectiles
then scoops a handful of .22 rimfire rounds
from one of a dozen buckets
wraps them in a rag that was once a shirt
and lowers them to the hungry man
awaiting the basket's return.
This is how it's been for longer
than he's marked on his improvised calendar.
Some of them bring canned food
bottled water, or chocolate that's gone pale
but the payment for these is less.
An armed survivor can use his wares
to obtain any other item if he's got a gut
strong enough to do what many
thought they never could
prior to the collapse.
It pays to get comfortable
with violence.
No one's tried to overtake him.
The only obvious method
would destroy the stockpile they seek.
Fire and gunpowder don't play well together;
or too well, perhaps, depending on perspective.
He used to hate the added elevation
of his brick-and-mortar residence
on laundry, shopping, and garbage days
but in these un-Presidented times
it's served him well.
Even patriots and prostitutes
know better
than to play cards
with a man named after a city.
Fiddling through his Winchester shells
he hears another holler
but sees no figure standing
in the specified space.
"Hoarder," his guest implores.
"Where are you?"
He contemplates the question
unsure of true response.
"I've got a box of books,"
declares his unknwon company.
"Which of them do you want?"
Collections of fiction and facts
were burned in the streets
during the collapse.
Only poetry remained.
They deemed it inconsequential.
"How many? What titles?"
He can't get the words out fast enough
to convey his excitement.
"Take a look," his salesman says
from the lot below his window.
He rises from his corner
and tilts his head over the sill
to read the covers
he's been previously denied.
There's a flash in the woodline
that he'll never see.
He was partly right:
It wasn't only fire.
The shot rings out
as desired.
If they can't spare one
they can't have any.
