With eyes full of an angry determination
he crossed his lawn,
one hand sheltering a small pistol.
An unhesitating skip and he crossed "the line,"
a small, but cavernous, ditch between our lives.
Age had slowed him,
but this time it was different.
Old age had been over ridden.
For a man in his eighties,
he came flying
around the corner to my storage shack.
His black fingers tightened on the pistol grip.
Slowly, every so slowly, it came up.
He saw our nemesis.
A tiny pistol traveled a great distance
from hate and racial distrust,
to a helping hand
for a neighbor and friend
A black man had just lent his pistol
to a white man.
"Go for it,"
and the gopher was gone