loaded

every day, in the early afternoon,
as the sun is pulling down
into her nest of water,
I open my front door.
I walk the familiar steps
across the living room,
into the quiet kitchen.
in the liquor cabinet:
the gun sitting there shy
like my boy on his first day of school,
not saying anything.

just resting there, on the top
shelf, above the fridge
as if it hadn't moved all day.
As if it hadn't even whispered
a single rumor.
each day
after the clamour of the office
before the wife gets home
from her night classes
i open that small, elevated door.

I spend a moment
pouring my scotch on top the
refrigerator.

i look at the small, quiet gun.

how it spends most of its life
sleeping.
cuddled up in the comfort
of liquors from around the world.
and how it's only purpose
in this house is to protect.

i slide the bottle behind the weapon.
softly i say,
as i would to some street thug,
i trust that you have an amazing potential
but i hope to never see it.