Guns just want to be shot.
They doze in the gun safe,
fidget in the night stand,
squirm in the glove compartment,
are restless under the driver’s seat.
The loaded pistol under the pillow
whispers to the sleeping mind above,
“I think I hear a burglar in the house.”
When not loaded,
they miss their bullets terribly.
A leaden hollowness
descends upon their lethal hearts.
They live to be fired.
Grains of black powder
contained in silver shells,
are willing to make a sacrifice
for the sake of the flash and blast.
Guns wait for the insertion of shells
like a child waits for Christmas.
Guns know how to make the grip
please the grasping palm,
the smooth steel half-moon
against the trigger finger.
The ecstasy of the bolt slid back and shut
to chamber a shell, the click of the
hammer eased back ready to fire,
a steady pull on the trigger
and death, a startled bird, rushes out.