Friday, August 30, 2013

The Mossberg Rejection

The Mossberg Rejection

She don't want me.
Me! In all my oily black glory
abandoned on the kitchen table
looking like Ah-nold  just stepped away 
for more shells.

She wants a 20 gauge
bantam, says I'm all too much,
says she 
don't need bling to compensate
for an undersized dick.
Just wants meat on the table,
maybe hamburgerize
a home invader or zombies
when the apocalypse comes.

His gaze caresses me,
he says,
but, honey, it's beautiful
She says, no,
just scary looking.
He says, ain't that the point?
She says no, meat is the point,
and I'm already scary enough
without that thing. 

That Thing? She calls me That Thing?
Mossberg Persuader 590A1 
with a pistol grip and a red dot sight,
you betchurass I'm scary. 
Famous, too, ain't she 
seen The Walking Dead?
Didn't she see me on Fox News
at the Tampa RNC keeping
those rich white people safe from 
the marching women and children 
with their sillyass signs?

Take it back, she says.
Just get me the Remington.
He lets out a big sigh and 
strokes me again, 
carefully wipes away a speck of dust
before wrapping me in the plastic,
setting me back into the box.

Out in the garage
he glances over his shoulder.
Takes me out of the box, out of the plastic.
Wraps me again
first in oily rags, then in a black garbage bag. 
Quietly opens the attic hatchway
and stows me under
a long wad of insulation with 
four boxes of shells.

He makes sure she sees 
him carrying the box to his truck.
Few days later he
earns a smile and a kiss
with a deer gun and a sack of shells.

So here I sit hidden, 
in all my oily black glory.
Waiting just like Ah-nold would,
ready for the zombies 

when the apocalypse comes.

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