peace, a poet invokes
the peace of the writing desk
the peace of writing
and I sit up to wonder
is this peace I feel?
I am the one who wonders about guns
who happily owns one and shoots it
cleans it, wipes it
while friends around me clamor
that guns should be taken away
from our freedoms
guns are too dangerous
especially in the hands of
whomever did the last killings
they think they know just how
to keep "those people"
from ever killing again
and well they might
if no one had any guns
then no one could stand
and kill people around him
not with guns
and maybe indeed
if you took guns away from me and mine
no one would ever think to pick up a rock
and brain a brother or a father
no one would ever pick up a kitchen knife
and drive it into a mate or friend
no one would ever imagine again
a garotte, a sickle, or a scythe
but I waste my arguments upon myself
and need to get back to the inquiry
is peace a product of writing
I think not
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