Legalize, and make a cliche
Of a strange phrase of permission.
Laws aside, here in desert towns
Between autumn cliffs and mountains,
It’s an interesting exercise
To walk around and think about
Which ones of the other bodies
Milling around in towns, on roads,
In stores, picking kids up from school,
Are hiding pistols in their clothes.
A month ago, a local man
In a trailer on Goose Mesa
Drove down into Hurricane,
Maybe to shop, run some errands,
And ended up unconcealing,
Brandishing his gun in the street,
Threatening a man and daughter.
This was a tactical error
As well as typical madness
For a land of guns shoved in pants.
The dad called the cops, the cops came
To ask questions, the unconcealed
Carrier lost it completely
And tore down the road at high speed
In his car as the cops gave chase.
Then he went full amok, shooting
Randomly at oncoming cars,
Finally forced out of his car
When spikes on the road pierced his tires.
He was headed home, of all things.
Fleeing the cops, causing havoc,
Why on earth was he headed home?
Don’t you find it somehow touching,
That he was trying to get home?
He almost made it. In Rockville,
He abandoned his car and fled
On foot, as they have to report
In these car chase accounts, on foot,
A kind of choreography,
The national dance, a car chase,
An active shooter, fled on foot.
He ran in and out of houses.
A woman and her child huddled
On the phone with the cops, while he
Prowled their yard, fully unconcealed,,
And, apparently, exchanged fire
With the now small army of law.
He was never going to get home.
After several hours of standoff
A single shot, back of the house,
And then quiet. Body armored
Swat teams, all their guns out, of course,
Encircled the treed yard and found
The gunman in a pool of blood
Having shot himself in the head.
Could have been so much worse, all said.
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