if there’s a gun
it must be fired
that’s the rule
and so now this poem
has a gun hanging there
and it must go off
it’s not much of a rifle
just a .22, at least
a hundred years old
with stock worn smooth
nothing to race
a hunter or collector’s
blood
still, there are cacti
and roadsigns
on the highway
we could shoot
and deer
standing dumbly
on the road waiting
for wolves that
never show
but I’d really rather not
shoot any of these
though I like firing guns
I mean who doesn’t, right?
and so perhaps we’ll
leave it hanging there
for now
as if above the door
of a hill country cabin
across from the mounted
deer head wearing
a rakishly cocked gimme cap
and I’ll wake at night
and check occasionally
to see that it hasn’t moved
because someday, of course,
it has to be fired if not in this poem
certainly in another
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
Admit it — there’s nothing like emptying a few beer cans, setting them up on a stump in the yard and trying to hit them.
Good poem.
Oh, yeah, I’ll happily admit that.
Thanks, Dave.