something topical

I wish the NRA were a real person,

a bona fide flesh-and-blood human being,

some guy named Bub or Jake or something,

with stubble and a gimp leg,

a harelip and an ugly wife,

who spit tobacco in a tin can and ate squirrel for breakfast.

I wish I could sit down with this Jake or Bub guy,

tell him about a 17-year-old from Ohio who had access to a gun,

because,

hell,

who’d want to background check some unstable kid

who’s got “KILLER” scrawled across his t-shirt in permanent marker?

I’d buy Mr. NRA a coffee,

pour the cream in it for him,

and even add some sugar,

if it pleased him.

Then I’d tell him about this kid who took a .22-caliber pistol to school,

shambled into the crowded cafeteria and fired ten shots randomly

killing three 16-year-old kids, and paralyzing another.

I’d ask Mr. NRA,

Bub, or Jake or whatever,

as he sipped his steaming cup of java,

why this kid should have access to a gun.

Was this kid what our forefathers had in mind,

writing The Right To Keep And Bear Arms?

Was this really something worth fighting for?

And then,

as he gulped down his coffee and crossed his legs at the ankles,

gazed at sparrows and hummingbirds softly chirping and darting about in the foliage,

I’d tell him about this kid’s court date.

About how this vile pathetic excuse for a human being,

turned around to face the grieving families of his victims,

and told them, “The hand that pulls the trigger that killed your sons now masturbates to the memory,”

and then promptly cursed at and raised his middle finger toward the victims’ relatives.

I’d ask Mr. NRA--

who’d probably be sitting there spitting blood-red tobacco juice into a rusty can on the seat next to him,
the syrupy intestinal drool of it clinging to his chapped lips,

perhaps smirking at me

with that doe-eyed look of ignorance’s bliss and righteousness,

uttering some stock phrases about “freedom” and “individuality”

or some other cliché garbage--

I’d ask him if this kid’s “freedom” and “individuality”

were worth protecting,

if that’s what he’d given so much money in bribes to congressmen for--

so some lunatic killer could get his hands on a gun and kill innocent people at random.

I’d say, “Look, Bub. Nobody’s trying to take your gun away.

But,

perhaps,

just this kid’s.”

We’d sit there,

drinking our coffee,

while the birds serenaded other birds in the background of our lives,

each to each,

maybe,

living their lives without lawn chairs and refrigerators,

SUVs, computers, jobs, movie theaters, 

or tobacco, government, coffee, Laundromats, taxes,  

or state lines,

or money.

But,

with song,

and therefore,

unlike us,
perhaps with a chance.