The men of my country carry pistols
into groceries — not because they’re afraid, 
no, not from fear. Really, it’s not.

They like the weight of their weapons
pressed against their thighs, hard penile,
the erotica of making bad guys beg.

Just to be clear, it’s not from fear
someone might take something from them,
claim their precious Jeep or iPhone 10,

or that the world is beyond their control
it keeps spinning and will not stop,
dizzying change the only constant.

Why, they’d have to admit their God’s protection
is not sufficient, the piss-producing realization 
nothing after death but the cold, cold coffin.