Disassembled

I'd propped the Remington against

a closet door frame

in the spare room

of what was my apartment again

since I could then

without question.

One night

bored by the film plot

with more holes in it

than my whiskey's cork

I repeatedly cycled the scattergun's action

in my lap on the recliner

ripping through the steel's shucking sound:

a song from a smoothbore

born in Ilion, New York

at the Turn of the Century.

Suddenly it jammed

leaving me with an ironbound headache

almost as jagged as newfound 

single-income living in our inflated age.

After three hours of attempted repair

sore and sooty fingers 

reached for the lamp switch

on my nightstand

wincing when a bloodied knuckle

rubbed brass unexpectedly.

Freshly defeated

by stubbornly stuck steel

for two nights 

I slept exclusively on my side of the bed

though it didn't 't matter any longer

like sliding into fresh sheets

as she'd always treated as a holiday

that these days were going to waste.

Soft-spoken, middle-aged

Midwestern men with too much spare time

lulled me to sleep through Internet anonymity

safely tucked away from their wives

with tutorial videos made in their basements

about this 12-gauge albatross of yore.

I dreamt of traveling back in time

to kick the firearm's designer

in a place he'd always remember

perhaps hard enough to dissuade him

from over-engineering the model in question.

If only our pasts could be changed.

On the third day I succumbed

and rebuilt the debacle

with intentions of confessions

to ill-advised disassembly

made during gunsmith surrender.

To my surprise the slide ran smoothly

and all moving parts behaved in the choir.

I pumped it triumphantly

for the better part of a minute

until a half-inch shard of steel 

shot from the ejection port.

The tune came to an end.

The tool no longer functioned.

I identified the broken component

and sourced a replacement online

grateful that this failure

had occurred in a safely controlled environment

as opposed to on a camping trip

in upstate bear country

that we'd never embark upon again.

Wood and steel.

Tried and true.

At least we weren't married

with kids and a mortgage.

That's what I told myself

while trying to decipher

the screws and springs

strewn about the floor

sharing the cause

of residual curse words 

stuck in my throat

beside her name

and those of New England towns

I'd never be able to revisit

in this lovely, limited lifetime.

Currently reading:  

"Rattle:  Fall 2020".