You Brandish Summer Nights

I slip it
from my pocket
hold it above the wheel
and examine its profile
using illuminated highway
ahead of me.
It's the smallest one
I own, can hide it
in my palm.
Naysayers scoff
at a .22
but in proficient hands
it can do the same job
quieter.
The mob used them
to plant men's faces
in their final bowls of spaghetti.
One behind the ear
rattles around in the skull
scrambling gray mass
like some grotesque
ostrich egg.
I'm no gangster
but I'm good
with what I own.

A closer lane-dazed look
tugs me out of autopilot.
The cylinder is angled
down into the barrel.
It should hit when fired.
It should blow up in my hand
but hasn't
and won't.
There's a grand design beyond me.
What's meant to be will be.

I slide it back where it belongs
and head to my motel room.
The part I can't make up
is that a star fell
in the woods.
They asked us on the psych test
if we believed in signs and symbols.
I told the truth and held my breath.
I'm not sure what it means, though.