There is a bullet here on my desk.
Tipped over on its side.
Its jacket is brass
and perfectly cylindrical.
It is cool. It is smooth.
Its weight is satisfying.
The tip—the actual bullet—
is blunt, is gray, is made of lead
and looks handmade,
like a carefully shaped dab
of gray mashed potatoes atop
its beautiful rocket.

As we roll this bullet back
and forth in the palm of
the hand, we can imagine its
precise dose of hidden powder,
waiting. This bullet. This
little can of something.
Something thoughtfully capped
with a quaint lead hat.

In closing I'd like to add that
you can actually write or draw with
a bullet. The lead tip is like
a very blunt pencil. And so I close
these thoughts on this bullet
by making with it a few straight lines
on a sheet of paper. By writing
my name. And date of birth.
And, "I am from Dayton."
Then a few more straight lines.
The plainest lines imaginable.