Where There Once Was A Woman, A Statue Stands Poem by John W. McEwers

The porcelain beagle holds a hunting rifle
and wears a shiny straw hat,
ready, it seems, to plunge into the
kiln-fired grass painted too bright a green
to find some duck or fowl to flush out
and fire upon.

I wonder sometimes if he's a good shot,
or would he aim wide, trailing the birds' flight
rather than leading them,
and shoot off somewhere, bullet landing
some unforeseen distance away
and all that happens
is the blast and muzzle flash
of what may as well be
and empty
angry gun.

I think that's what happened to us Kate

My muzzle
always empty
always loud

Never aiming its anger the right direction.