Weapons, their hot issue piercing bone
and flesh.
Screams, cries for mommy, daddy.
They run, stumble, crouching against the
horror.
Mothers, fathers, waiting, their angels
frozen in place.
The Headquarters, its proud “NRA”, in
polished bronze.
Hucksters inside, huddled, scripting
Freedom’s necessity —
the immolation of children, offered to
the pleasure of cold steel.
Holstered man-boys, gathered to caress a
fake manhood.
Their lying recitation, “Guns don’t
kill ...”
Congress, cowards waiting at emails
for talking points.
People, citizens, When will it end?
The children, twenty this time, finished
with life.
JOHN MULLEN
Rocky Neck Avenue, Gloucester
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