Pistol
It was silver and shiny
like the utensils
in the drawer.
I discovered it
when he asked me
for a spoon to stir his coffee.
My grandfather lived alone,
a long way from the police,
out in the country.
It fit in his hand
like any knife or fork.
When he died,
I wondered where it went,
what anyone would think
what he needed it for,
that setting his table
for someone
each time was a choice of silver.
© James Carroll
Live: Easton, Maryland
Member: Pratt Poetry Monthly Group and Trinity Church Poetry Group, Easton
Two poems were runners-up in the Pratt Poetry Contest
Publications: Bachy (now defunct) and Inlet (now defunct)
The Loch Raven Review 