Jack


Jack has a gun.
He preaches with it in his pocket;
keeps it loaded, unexploded;
Jack, and his gun.
It's the kind of thing he always does,
just after a war or reading of one, in case of one;
he's sentimental like that.
Being humored by scenarios he only imagines,
keeps him prepared in a healthy way, because...
Jack, has a gun.
I remember when everyone,
shocked at some news, recoiled
and repeated their worries and fears to each other;
Jack, only listened and sipped his ice tea
and rocked in his chair on the porch;
and oh, did I mention,
Jack, has a gun.
I thought it weren't his and perhaps, it wasn't,
and perhaps there was more to its story,
but Jack was determined to keep all its secrets
bottled inside like the bullets which hid
in the gun which he kept in his pocket.
I know when he spoke of it no one else listened;
he thought I just knew what he thought he had told me.
Once, after thinking I'd heard it fall out,
when once he fell soundly asleep in his chair
and I thought that I heard it, fall out... on the floor,
I thought that I'd see it;
I saw it was actually an oddly shaped rock;
smooth-like, all over, almost a bit shiny,
and I saw that apparently,
it wasn't still loaded.
I wondered a lot about that after that
but never once questioned the fact that I knew
the truth of the matter
was: Jack... has a gun.
He preaches with it in his pocket.
He's given clues on how to use it,
as now I know, he often does.

Copyright (c) 2005 Gary Brown