The Gun Permit

I walk away from the gun shop

with only the trigger —

the gun left behind,

on the floor,

kicked under the counter,

without a bang.

The eyelash of the weapon

rests in my pocket,

like my tongue,

waiting in my mouth,

for a more articulate way

to defend the more productive

of my constitutional rights.

The author is an artist, poet and novelist living in Brooklyn. davidcolosi.com

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