I can’t attest to provenance per se`,
Except to clearly note where it was cast,
As well as where it’s been for most its life.
The pistol lacks the power to impress –
A Browning heritage, its shrouded past
Calls it a soldier’s sidearm, never strapped
Or bold enough to take a forward post.
I claimed it, where it hid, in an apothecary
Case, beneath a mystic mixture store
Of potions, salves, and tinctures
Dr. Mathewson had kept secure, away.
I learned it came from Herstal, Belgium:
Firepower, pure and simple, for imagination
Fascinated with where I hope it’s been.
It should have made the auction slate,
But I’d arranged to ‘find’ it far too late
To land upon the auction catalog.
Like that! the gavel cracked the final egg.
Nine-tenths of law gave custody
Not to me, but to my wary Dad. The gun
And I remained estranged until he passed.
Somehow, my gunsmith uncle knew to look
And pass the weapon on along to me.
“Your father knew you coveted” he said.
Thus, I have had it now, since he is dead,
A piece like this cut down an Archduke once.
The War to End All Wars runs through its veins
Like blood to blood at last demanded peace.
I keep the gun well-oiled and prepared,
Though I have no designs on how or where
Some chance will say it must make peace with fate
And live up to its full design. I know
A weapon not discharged is not the same
As debts unpaid. What ‘may’ or ‘might’ knows aught
Of chasms splitting ‘should’ from every ‘could’.