Sex and Murder Magazine

By Joseph M. Gant

there was a bullet
on the playground;

it
didn’t have a name.
it
didn’t have a home.
it
pretended not to care.
it
didn’t have a birthday.

—no one sang to it at all.

it
didn’t know what it was for.
it
came from darkness of the barrel.
it
found a home on pavement ground.
it
made a friend along its way.

Johnny was his name—
now he has nothing too.