My best friend bought a Glock
which he keeps in a locking case
in his bedroom. He and his petite wife
are considering a license for concealed
carry. She’s so small, so light boned,
I wonder where she’ll tuck it, bulging
from the small of her back, or under
an arm she can’t lower. I suppose
a handbag will do, the pistol
wedged next to her checkbook,
lipstick, mascara. Even so, I doubt
she’ll pull it in an emergency. She isn’t
one to dig through her purse when
a nut job steps into the fast food,
his rage so many shades
beyond her children’s colored pencils.
Who prepares for madness?
She’s kid-in-tow below the table,
the handbag next to the chicken nuggets,
honey mustard, spilled ketchup.
