McGrevey Last Stand

A 45 

     pressed  into  iron belly 

                         afront green buttons,

                         holding in a gut of scares

yanked sideways, the 45’s

                              hammer and handle

      lay tucked under the folds of military years. 


                           His chin wobbles from time in.

The stubble-pot-chin of ingrown,

             curly rusted stubs 

                      freezing the rank 

                      to the left and right,

                      waving his coat of arms, 


                       then, resting his palm on the 45s slide,

                              proud of the mud of bygone war.

Now, locked inside of lost-memory of what enemies

          the 45 never let him go and turning against him

          sending the man 

          into his shined boots.