When you have to kill every motherfucker in the room accept no substitute is what he says as he shows off his 26 guns, which don’t include the one near the rack of ribs on the kitchen table, or the one making company with dust left in a gap between the refrigerator & wall, or the one we know is hidden in the back of his nightstand drawer, or underneath the seat of his custom-made F350 parked outside on the asphalt street of a gun state. He’s a kid in a candy store, he wants me to hold each one in my hands, to get to know this assortment of candy, some made in the US, other formidable Russian semi-sweets—were this a cowboy picture he’d be the man to save the day, guns in hand, a backdrop of women fighting for his attention, some he’s loved, others waiting for the chance, you know the stuff of Hollywood. They’ve been married nearly 11 years, together 20, he & wife; I look at his bare ring finger, wonder how many times she’s had the need to retreat like now to an opposite wing of the house, her eyes glued to a TV or scripture, praying or watching, whatever it is women do when their men like the taste of sugar. We’re more like friends than family so I half-joke, ask if he’s trying to do better; the kitchen window facing west frames a bloodshot sky, he says I’m an old man baby girl but I’m trying—