Mama, Put My Guns in the Ground

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Mama, Put My Guns in the Ground

I can’t shoot them anymore. —Bob Dylan

Like all good southern
country boys, and a first-born

male to boot, I begged
for a gun long past the age

when my younger brothers
got theirs. A Remington Wingmaster—

pump action, blued steel,
satin walnut stock, 20 guage—

it was thing of beauty.
After school, when I could,

I stared and stared
at that piece of manhood

locked on the stand
in Hand Trading Company,

held it at times to feel
the power of bringing

a dove or quail down, till
I got the go-ahead

and put my savings
on the counter, walked

out slip-cased and full
of life, at 16

knowing I had the power
to point and kill.

2 thoughts on “Mama, Put My Guns in the Ground

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