Volunteer                                              for Richard C.   “You may not believe this,” he said, “but I was a handsome guy — I was.” The meds cart, propelled by a pretty nurse, clattered by. “Hi, Richard,” she sang. He leered,“Hey, sweetheart,   I’ll keep an eye out for you.” He laughed, so did she. “See that?” he told me. “I still got it, I still . . .” Just for me he made a show of something big beneath the sheet. “I bought   the farm, didn’t I?” he murmured, adjusting the patch where once he had an eye, once he had a socket, and a face. He fussed with his water bottle, spilling some. “Sun’s   gonna kill me,” he said, our private joke, his signal that he wanted out, and all that out could mean. “The real thing beats a poke in the eye, beats the shit out of marinol.   You brought some, right? Good.” And then, “It’s not fair, is it. This sucks.”                              I said, “I’ll get the chair.”     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2009