.22 pistol by Justin Hyde


still here
in my father’s basement
wrapped in blue rags.


i swear it’s heavier
than a bowling ball.

well oiled
smells like
my grandfather’s hands.

i came for it
in my twenties

the soft spot
of my temple or
down my throat.

my son
upstairs with my father
& mother.

his engine
runs fast
toward the chasms
like me.

i worry

will he unbundle
these blue rags?

will his hands smell
like my grandfather’s

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