Saturday, October, lead slug loaded
in my father's Remington, my brother
and my friend took cover when I chose
a dull-gold Monte Carlo, junked
but still in one piece, rusting, resting
in the sunlight, in the weeds.
Reading Hemingway years later, I remembered
how the trigger quietly resisted,
how the butt let loose and kicked
with mule force at my shoulder,
how the barrel leapt and the explosion
shook a snakeskin from the wheel well.
We marveled for a minute at the blast hole
we could fit a fist through, knelt and peered
across the bench seat to the daylight
of the exit wound, grew large
with moderate destruction and reloaded
as we strode like new men toward a Pinto.
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