Luger

He brought back a Luger

from World War II;

we all need our trophies

and he had a few.

A Purple Heart medal,

a couple of scars,

a letter in German

and one silver star.

And he had his stories,

his songs and his rants,

his men in the trenches,

a young gal in France,

but he never mentioned

how he came to own

a Jerry boy’s pistol

one night near the Rhone.

Fifty years later

he left it behind

with three other guns

that his son had consigned

to buy a piano;

he hadn’t a need

for his father's weapons,

souvenirs of his deeds.

Sometimes, even now,

I can hear his son play

when the window is wide

and the breeze blows this way,

and maybe it’s crazy,

but I think somehow

those hammers are beating

a sword

to a plow.