Gun

A short poem about a gun.

My ears, tainted by thick drama
And years of artists’ literature,
Expected a bone-shattering explosion
And finely-timed music metered by screams,
While my eyes were shocked that
I was not silhouetted against
An evening battlefield
With smoky, acrid air trimmed by rifles. 

Only a small click
On a dirty plain
That smelled like soft mud,
And I was a monster.