Touching bullets and triggers

Pulling metal tempered steel

With palms together

Clutching fingers

Swollen hands

Dry scraped and scarred

And smoothed back again true

They would rather be soft and un-callused

Warm and smooth

Since that is more honest.

Having gripped cold

With frost that flew

As lightning

Back to life

Without holding my breath

Wielding weapons

From arm to barrel gone

With the sun’s reflection

Off the metal gleam

And into my eyes

That is enough

Being better at love:

I’ll always prefer touching a woman

To touching a machine