There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart, The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust. A spider will make a silver string nest in the darkest, warmest corner of it. The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty. And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall. Forefingers and thumbs will point absently and casually toward it. It will be spoken among half-forgotten, wished-to-be-forgotten things. They will tell the spider: Go on, you're doing good work. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY LITTLE ONE' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MODULATIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON READING WHITMAN IN A TOILET STALL by TIMOTHY LIU BOOTH'S PHILIPPI by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DOMESDAY BOOK: GREGORY WENNER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: IMANUEL EHRENHARDT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |