my father's gun

my father’s gun

before we moved to the country my father told stories
of all the fun we’d have hunting and fishing and hiking
he was selling us a dream of a future that he hoped for
promises made and promises kept and promises broken
speaking of an idyllic childhood of farm dogs and horses
tomatoes fresh from the vine and corn growing in rows
of his father’s stern visage and his mother’s sweet face
in the woods checking rabbit traps drinking well water
and from somewhere he obtained a beautiful shotgun
a harness filled with shells gun oils and cleaning rods
it sat in my parents closet among shoes and shoe trees
fascination drawing me every time i was at home alone
he took it out a few times on clear cold winter mornings
shot a few rabbits and put it away never to be fired again