Borrowed

Sometimes I wonder where it is now.

Black and heavy- in silence waiting,

asleep in someone's drawer.  

I've never held one,

though I've imagined how the weight of it

might fit my hand

and if the residual touch

of your long dead fingers

might whisper the pull of your ghost's grey trigger-

somehow loaded in the metal of my mind.  

I've crawled the grasses

approximating the place

you're said to rest.

No stone for your shattered head.

A single bullet, two worded

note crumpled in the pocket

of bloody blue jeans,

your friend's gun given back to him,

gone.