the problem with 'The Gun Room' [2011]

bleeding profusely from
his left knee     the eldest son
collapsed in the entryway
          "...I wish I was sitting in a stuffed chair with arms to support me..."

crying and clutching he
was scooped     carried up
three flights of stairs
"...in a location cooled by fans and off the beaten path..."

this is the Gun Room
and here     we receive messages
and the occasional patient
"...where there are no phones and the lighting is complete but dim..."

I placed the panicked boy
upon the chest     trembling
and tore away his jeans
"...and there are intriguing books on shelves just at arm's length..."

the deep wound gushed with
the boy's rapid     heartbeat
there was no sign of the glass
"...and I've no pressing engagement in the foreseeable future..."

the father cursed under his breath
and left     the boy bawling
in the room beside the bedroom
          "...I am well rested and I've just come from viewing a stimulating film..."

as I entered the room
I found our son     teetering
on the edge of an old crate
"...I have a mug of hot tea beside me and a bottle of water..."

I stuffed a dirty dish towel
into his mouth     bite down
and muffled his tormented screams
"...I've just used the bathroom, which is nearby if I need to use it again..."

I asked the wife to leave
the room     and she left
before comforting the boy
"...I know my family is safe in their homes and without considerable worry..."

tears streamed down his
red face     betrayed by
a rusty grey Craftsman toolbox
"...there is a stick of Nag Champa burning in a nearby tray..."

his father produced a pair
of pointed pliers     and plunged them
into the boy's open wound
"...I am barely noticed and I barely notice the actions of others..."

  [A CD of subdued improvisations — featuring bass clarinet 
                                   and synthesizer — plays in the background, and I am 
                                   comfortable in my cargo shorts, pocket tee, and 
                                   oversized hooded sweatshirt.  It is roughly 1:00 PM
(time is of no real concern) and I've just eaten a nutritious meal.
I am seated before my computer, and I have a clear understanding of 
                                   what is wrong with my poem:  my knee is bleeding.]