Uncle John's Pistol.

It lays dark and dense
black metal cold heavy brick
old guns hold secrets

No keys open doors
when there are no locks to turn
no portal, just dust

He carried it home
from a war from
a juke joint
resting in his rough wool coat
delightful in the small way
it filled his palm.
When the moon was
high and full
and the wisteria and brambles
grabbed at him
in the silvered darkness
a little lump of
something steady kept
him from whispering
"who's there!?"
or when eyes would dart and
roll their silent signals
in a rickety place
nods would be exchanged
and corners regarded upon
in pay day saloons
he need only to feel the grips
and they, dusky and bloodyminded
would skulk after some
peckerwood
too drunk to be any trouble.

And now it waits for me
to find my way by a wholesome
bit of water
to throw it in and
send it back to his creaking
barrel house Valhalla.