Not thinking about it doesn’t make it go away.
Recollection makes sense of it, invents
details from the misremembered: as with open carry and
its fine print—no one flinches when the guy walks

into McDonalds, a large pistol strapped to his waist and orders
a Big Mac, hold the pickles, and the young man at the register
says it always has pickles. When you’ve got a pistol strapped
to your waist you can’t help resting your hand on its polished

blue-black handle with faux pearl inlay on the grip, and the young
man at the register understands, says yes sir, hold the pickles.
The rest of us try not to notice when the man-with-pistol
sits down at a booth, watches cars pull through the drive-up,

waiting for his Big Mac. I imagine it must be uncomfortable
sitting down with a large pistol strapped to your waist, poking
butt into rib cage, although I wonder if it matters like the pain
you’ve had so long it becomes you.