A 45
pressed into iron belly
afront green buttons,
holding in a gut of scares
yanked sideways, the 45’s
hammer and handle
lay tucked under the folds of military years.
His chin wobbles from time in.
The stubble-pot-chin of ingrown,
curly rusted stubs
freezing the rank
to the left and right,
waving his coat of arms,
inter-poatureously,
then, resting his palm on the 45s slide,
proud of the mud of bygone war.
Now, locked inside of lost-memory of what enemies
the 45 never let him go and turning against him
sending the man
into his shined boots.