Stamped

The postal clerk hands me a sheet of Maya Angelou stamps.  We both hear his radio.  Breaking news tells us of the latest school shooting.  This time in our state.  This time only a few hours down the Interstate.  This time more people reported dead than usual.
The postal clerk is hardly empathetic.
"Criminals will always get guns," he spits at me.
Any gun control will just keep the good people from their right to own guns."
I don't respond; just take the stamps and walk away.
We don't see eye to eye.  In fact I can't begin to fathom how he sees this issue.
But we both know the drill.  Deflections cobbled from "mental illness" a twisted version of the 2nd Amendment, or anything that fits the bill.

These folks want to kill terrorists.  Their lens is clouded because they hardly realize thousands more have been killed by our home grown variety than by any from another country, culture, religion, or organized group.
We've perfected the lone wolf.  The depressed kid that often lives at home with his mother.  The one that can easily obtain an assault rifle.  He poses with his long gun.  He paints his social media efforts with plenty of images...plenty of convoluted thoughts, yet maintains the aura of surprise.
Our politicians have no will.  No backbone.  No huevos.  That adds up to no ethics.  Like my friend selling stamps, they've all gone postal in a rather strange way.
All of these impotent ideas under one flag today at half staff