the pink gun

from her open
purse you see the debris
and necessities
of her existence.
the usual.
make up. lipstick,
a hair brush,
compact. tissues,
and something pink.
what's that you say,
pointing with a careful
finger into
the deep abyss of
her personal belongings.
it's a gun she
says, reaching in
to put her small hand on
the barrel, the handle,
gently a finger
on the trigger.
for protection she says,
smiling.
then closing the purse,
the clasp
snapping loudly
and clear.