on the Feast of Saint Anthony 1990

He's losing me at the penny arcade
where the play and the outcomes turn
on pocket change. Formed of flattened tin,
the ducks that swim in straight lines
don't even dent when hit. He raises the gun
to his cheek, targets the simple things
he shoots to kill, poised as St. Julian
before a powerful assault of stags.
He's equipped for violence; he knows what it is
to be a man, and how a her reacts to a him.
The obligations of being born
father and son make him shy of the gun.
But he cocks his weapon and sets its sights,
discharging three times. Bullets go awry.
I shrug at each unwon stuffed prize
and squeeze his arm as if to say,
Not everyone succeeds every time.
He grimly puts another bill down
and lifts the barrel over my head.
He squints, aims surely, and misses thrice.
I grin uneasily at passersby who, like me,
can see that his cowboy boots are too big.