by Bill Aarnes
Davy Crockett called his flintlock Ol’ Betsy
The traffic has slowed to a stop
on the West Side Highway,
my Lyft now going nowhere.
The gun lover driving the pickup
stuck just a few feet ahead
in the lane to the right
must take pride that someone
as ignorant as me has never bothered
to learn by heart the brands
of the five firearms shown
on the decal on his back window
above the words "My Family."
I wonder if the guy goes home
to a flesh-and-blood family,
if they approve of the decal.
I guess maybe his wife
found it for him in a gun shop.
Then I make up some names
for the weapons: cute Little Lethal
(or is it Pocket-Sized Bullpup?),
older brother Son of a Gun,
big sister Knock-em Dead,
a less motherly than steely
Femme Fatale, and the cock-sure
Ready to Unload My Load.
Car and pickup both inch ahead.
I fear I’ve made up names
he—and his family—would like.
Bill Aarnes now lives in New York, where he is recovering from COVID.
