Mercy

Could be a sob, betrayed by the shotgun and my body. It was almost the last time I have fired a gun. It stayed unloaded in my father's closet while he was away, And after he returned from Vietnam, and had retired, My mother had him keep it on the back porch behind the freezer. We forgot it was there. But a few years ago, after my mother died, It became clear how far my father's mind had gone. We had to take away his car keys; keep him from getting lost. We also had to think how he could hurt himself Without knowing, or someone else during furious fits. I found the gun and loaded it again against my shoulder, Still impressed. The trigger itched to be kicked, making me see The misery my father wandered through was just no way To live, and not the way I would have him die

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