POEM: Charlton Heston In Heaven

I wonder if Charlton Heston regrets
that video clip of him raising that
musket over his head,
Growling chafed words
about prying guns from cold,
dead hands, if there are toothless
cherubs surrounding him,
onion skinned, who also know about guns,
about tiny, cold, dead hands,
still as full of wonder,
scented with the talc of trust,
with voices like a corn-cob whisk,
telling him just how wrong he was?