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Kevin Gordon
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Shotgun Behind the Door
The old man and his mind
Were tucked inside
The little house on Quinton Street
Jesus peered down
From a frame on the wall
From the dark garden of Gethsemane
Friday night roared
Through summer window screens
Engines racing, siren sound
In the city he sees, behind his eyes
Trouble's face is always a shade of brown
I don't know
What I don't know
In this world anymore
Say my prayers
Knowing there's
A shotgun behind the door
Watching Lawrence Welk
From his easy chair
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White gloves, rhinestones glow
No Detroit riot
No Memphis march
No troublemaker gonna stop the show
There in the corner
It leaned like a broom
Stark against the wall
In a parlor where
No one would gather
Nothing but dust would fall
He said “You gotta watch yourself
'Round here, grandson—
Some fool come around, knock you in the head”
But that old man died
As old men will do
In a morphine dream, in a nursing home bed
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