I.
Your Craigslist headline said
“Pursuing People With Diabetes”
and, well,
you'll forgive me
if I pictured attack dogs and
helicopters with searchlights--
Wilford Brimley
crashing through underbrush,
ducking halogen beams,
whipped by briars
and fluctuating blood glucose levels,
when it strikes:
intermittent claudication,
that sudden snag in the calves--
it slows him
the dogs are on him
teeth gnashing
trained to hold, not kill
he goes down,
pries at canine jaws
with fingers toughened
by ten thousand needle pricks,
but its just no use.

II.
Men in uniforms arrive.
It takes three of them
to pin Brimley down,
he's a fighter,
but they get him cuffed,
haul him to his feet,
he is half-stripped, pockets torn,
unused testing strips
litter the cold ground.
One man laughs.
His breath stinks of
snack cakes and frosting.
“Well, you won't be
needing those anymore,
where you're going,” he sneers
and he shoves
Brimley forward.
They march him
to the edge of the woods
and a waiting van.
The driver says,
“Just a moment.
She wants a word with him.”

III.
The young woman pushes
her straw hat
back from her auburn hair.
She slinks close,
seductress smile,
runs a finger down
Brimley's sweaty, bare chest.
“Oh, Wilford,” she croons,
“did you really think
you could escape me
so easily?”
Beaten, but proud,
Wilford Brimley
lifts his chin
and spits,
a glob that splatters
on the lace trim
of her blue-plaid shirt.
“Little Debbie," he growls,
"you fucking bitch.”