The Cabinet of Ishmael

Bruce, I’m fixated on the guns again;
wondering if anyone’s every complimented you
on your very nice rack.
One rifle looks like it was carried by Clint Eastwood
in a movie about a general-purpose western town
surrounded by sagebrush and conveniently located
watering holes.
Another, with a scope and a metal nipple centered
methodically under the stock, one more under the butt,
reminds me of my ex-wife—wooden and stout.
Then there’s the shotgun; neither the type carried by
riot police, nor the zombie slayer sawed-off pistol grip…
no, it’s an all-day hunter. Barrel, long like a giraffe’s neck…
if a giraffe could blow a giant hole
through your chest from across the street.
From the urban, upper-floor window we’ve all haunted
at least once in our vacant, silly, vulgar life you aim.
And a flash of safety orange, as the sunlight hits you,
is the only warning on the street below.
Of all the guns in your ornate cabinet, none of these
mere civilian rifles are my favorite item, no; it’s behind a
hidden panel on the backside, a magnificent weapon,
the hand-forged harpoon head from your epic sailor days.
Before the big wars, the bigger bomb, and the computer
your bareheaded noggin roamed the streets of seaside towns
fighting the frustrations, the isolations, the sparks of genius.
It was your growing urge to tip their hats—off, off, off
compelling you to the docks that has carried forward
in all the minds, and all the hands, of all the heroes
who’ve heard the Other Voice swimming with their own
in the darkest waters, at the clearest depths.
Off, off, off … to the sea, to the sea … before you snap,
before you pop the heads of strangers from an upper story
window.

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By K. Shawn Edgar | Tipping Hats in the Streets | Mind Sailor