Pointers

There are men who wield
God-given five-digit weapons,

with unparalleled accuracy.
Hip-fired hollow-points or
Full-metal iron-sight finger-fired points.
The shots always land.

They rain blame in place of bullets,
phantom pains in armor-piercing guilt,

Magazines in the wrists,
Foregrips in the elbows,
Friend or foe, we are all painted in targets.
Their firearms are blind.

Until the stock creaks and the muzzle buckles
and the rust sets into the calcium mechanism,

The men with the god-given five-digit weapons
don’t realize that a triple-barrel always pointed home.

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