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A Neighbor Gone

  A Neighbor Gone 2/5/2026 ICE prowls our neighborhood Like a mean tomcat stalking an innocent victim. Knowing his prey is hungry and helpless, He lurks outside her locked door. The tomcat is not hungry. He is obese, Stuffed like a glutton, And bloated by the king of his notorious pride. The hunt is simply a game to him: A primal instinct Instilling fear in his prey—and in others, Loathing. The tomcat’s prey is starving. She seeks a morsel of cheese. She peeks out the door. With a single swipe of his paw, The tomcat plucks her from the doorway, Forces her to the ground. He pounces upon her, grabs her by the neck, And flings her in the air. Domination excites him. He repeats the torment. Surrounded by his approving pride and her appalled neighbors, She is hauled away. Tears from her husband and children stain her window. The tomcat delivers his traumatized and bleeding prey To the golden doorstep of his evil king. “Well done, loyal servant.” says...
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A Message from Above

  A Message from Above by Dave Wright I arrived at the door of my old apartment on Eustis Street in St. Paul wearing a paisley short sleeve shirt and a swede leather coat that was a size too small. (It was a snug fit when I bought it, but hey, the price was right.) It was early May, and I had seen my buddy’s Chrysler Cordoba in the parking lot. I was in my first year of veterinary practice in Blooming Prairie, had the weekend off, and was looking for college friends. I had lived in this second-floor apartment the previous year during my senior year of veterinary school at the University of Minnesota with three other FarmHouse Fraternity brothers. After graduation we turned the apartment over to several women we knew who still had to complete another year at the U. I knocked. A young woman I didn’t recognize answered the door wearing a raggedy faded blue bathrobe. She looked at me with a skeptical eye. Later, I found out she thought I was peddling religion. “Hi,” I said. “I...
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Get a Job!

  Get a Job! by Dave Wright My dad was a firm believer in the work ethic—the curse of American capitalism—and he was determined to instill it into my brothers and me. My younger brothers were early adapters. They were barely out of grade school when they began farrowing sows and raising hogs at a farm near town. I, on the other hand, was a slow learner. Despite Dad’s efforts to get me out of the house—say, by baling hay or assembling grain bins, those jobs survived one outing—and I wasn’t invited back. Lucky me. The day after I celebrated my sixteenth birthday, I passed my driver’s test and lost any excuse for staying out of the job market. “Where are you planning to work?” queried Dad. “I’ll provide you with a car to drive, but I expect you to supply the gas.” Having made no attempt to apply anywhere by the time school started that fall, Dad found a job for me. Watland Implement: Sweeper “I’ve talked to a friend of mine who owns the International Harvester dealers...
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An Old Man Canoes the Quetico

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  An Old Man Canoes the Quetico by Dave Wright Canoeing in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, or in this case, its Canadian counterpart, Quetico Provincial Park, has been one of my favorite activities of my life. I recently celebrated my seventy-second birthday, and I wondered, Can I still do this? Am I physically capable of enjoying the trip? Can I compensate for my age with extra preparation? I was eager to find out. I took my first canoe trip as an eighth grader out of Camp Widgiwagon through the YMCA. I was a shrimpy eighty-pounder and had a hard time keeping up. I learned that it’s okay to apologize, but persistent self-deprecation soon becomes aggravating. The trip was marked by rain, smelly canvass tents, food shortage, and a cranky guide and counselor. The last night of the trip, the four of us boys pitched our tent in a grassy swale—no roots or rocks to bite our backs for a change. About midnight it started to pour. We piled our sleeping bags next to one wa...
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