Let me draw your attention,
says the gun. The sky litters
stucco-snow, as we all drop.
Beside me, a soon-to-be with a busted lip says,
the guns in this neighborhood are getting
more and more mouthy—such poor attitudes.
I am thinking of buying a pet gun,
and taking it for constant walks.
I am thinking of settling down
with a nice house in the country.
A man dives under the bus stop, blowing
empty word bubbles into the air.
Another gun barks, sneaks under
the closest fence.
She says, guns in this neighborhood need
to be put on leashes, need to be put to sleep.
I say, maybe you shouldn’t be talking.