You finally jerk the barrel
from the night imp’s sausage grip,
only to discover its slick alloys
sweat kidney warm in your palm.
You hate him for taunting you with it,
the wand you never dreamed you’d flourish,
but he slips the handle smoothly
into the fingers of your fear.
You hate him for knowing you so well,
the daylight pacifist ready now for sleep,
holstering an American dream.