Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson

The metallic click
Of the magazine
Slams in the receiver.
I jack the slide
Ramming the first round
Into the chamber.
The procedure gives me
Peculiar satisfaction.

Turning the lethal machine
In my hand
I admire the well-balanced heft.
The soft return of ambient light
Gleams along its sleek form.

Thirteen copper jacketed
Hollow points
With one behind the trigger
Give assurance
Any threat will be instantly
Dispatched
With the twitch of my finger.

Like the Finger of God.

I have power
Fourteen times over
To remove the wicked
At eighteen hundred feet per second.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson assure me
I am a mighty man.

Oiled leather
Smelling sweet and ancient
Seats death at my hip
For instant use.

Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson smile.
I am a mighty man.

But they lie
Of course.