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Bullets 
rain down in buckets
of midnight gully-
washers before dancing
the sidewalks like anxious
diamonds washing mud
off our work boots.
Around here it's early-
to-bed & early-to-rise. By
midmorning we've got a belly-
ful of baby-blue bullets & bake-
sale bullets, bandits' bullets & free-
wheeling, heart-stomping bullets
to last a lifetime. Our men's
slow pitch softball team
signed on a designated hit-
ter bullet nailed down to a bonus,
incentive-riddled contract
while the Altar & Rosary
Society runs a chain
of Wednesday morning
rummage sales to ransom
back all foreign-tooled, Bedouin
bullets with big-time prices on
their heads. It's been one
hellova honeysuckle summer
while we wile away our days
with soap opera bullets pretending
they're cinema verite bullets as
they watch us sip swizzled lemon ices
out of tall, frosted glasses. On Main
Street the Walgreen's runs weekly
specials on over-the-counter
bullets in thirty-three shades
of bloodshot brown while the village
historical society owns this state's
largest collection of granddaddy
bullets who've served time
in Revolutionary War blunderbusses.
Ask sweetly. Maybe they'll show
you the latest thing in super-
sonic stealth bullets always on
the money & never needing a prayer.
Come nightfall, you'll probably spot
a steamy bullet or two leaning up
against a lamppost, looking for
work. The upshot, my friend,
day or night you'll find the un-
expected greeting you as you
turn the next corner.
You're in our sights & just
what we were
aiming for. Hot-
shot, welcome
home. We've been
waiting for you
a long, long time.
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