Sherry Chandler » The Dealer
The Dealer
I’ll give the last word on guns to Charlie Whitt, who has generously shared this poem with us:
The Dealer
Don’t compare this with Europe,
Or me with the poet who traveled abroad
To find ruin enough to write about.On the highway to my town
There is time plenty to remember those
Who will not complete the journey.The dealer leaning against the brick fence eyes us.
He doesn’t know if we are customers,
Or just two people caught by the light.He doesn’t know if we are police,
He doesn’t care, he’s ready for anything,
And ready to leave his life in a bloody poolOn that cold sidewalk; ready to leave mine.
The light turns green, “the police know it”
We agree. “They are afraid, or bribed”We agree. “They say we have to fix this ourselves”
What are we paying them for?
We agree, we don’t know.We react, tell the broker, “this is a nice automatic,
It balances perfectly in my hand,
And those bullets,”
“Whatever they hit is dead,”
The broker cuts in.I hate the waste thrust in our faces daily,
I hate knowing the dealer has made me his equal.—Charles M. Whitt
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