| how i learned to shoot a gun |
unknown
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grandpa stood behind me
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as i crouched
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with my forearms rested
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on his father's
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headstone.
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breath out slowly
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and squeeze the trigger
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between heartbeats,
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he said.
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took me
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two boxes of shells
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but i finally drilled
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my first
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ground-squirrel.
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good day for plinkin',
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the sheriff pulls
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into the small cemetery
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on a hill
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and calls to me
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from his window,
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got a permit
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for that
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pistol?
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no sir
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i don't.
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hey,
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you're fiester's grand-kid
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aintcha'?
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yea.
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hell,
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i ain't gonna
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ticketcha',
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but you best get a' permit
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if you're gonna fire that thing
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outside a'
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benton county.
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yes
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sir.
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he pulls on
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out.
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i take my flask
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from my jacket
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pocket.
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hit a double pinch
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and reload the chamber
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before putting my forearms
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back down on
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grandpa's stone.
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19 May 07 |
Rated 9.3 (9.3) by 5 users.
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(define the words in this poem)
(1 user considers this poem a favorite)
elodious
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Add A Comment:
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Comments:
Arkansas
— unknown
Pelican taught me how to shoot.
-Joel-
— HTSA
33, no a'.
rest dont touch.
good poem.
— jumpoline
jump, htsa,
thanks for reading.
jump, i used a' because the sheriff pronounced "a" like "ahh"
justin.
— unknown
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