taking aim

when I was ten
my friend dexter had a rifle.
he cleaned it every night,
taking it apart
piece by piece.
taking a chamois cloth
and oils to it.
a twenty two
which he slung
over his shoulder
and carried everywhere.
no one seemed to mind.
men would stop
him on the street and say,
son, is that a twenty two.
mind if I take a look.
and the men
would hold
the rifle up, look
through the crooked scope
and say bang,
as if shooting it off, or
nice gun, they'd say
before heading
off to work.
he let me shoot it once.
picking out a squirrel
in a tree.
go ahead he said, line
it up and fire.
but i aimed low,
i grimaced as i squeezed
the tight trigger,
hitting the trunk.
i couldn't imagine killing
anything
so innocent,
so small and defenseless.
he laughed with his wide
freckled face
then aimed and fired,
knocking the squirrel out of
the tree, dead.
i lost track of dexter
as the years went by,
but every now
and then i wonder
what happened to him,
waiting
to see his name in a
news report.