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.