THE PRICE OF ADMISSION

 

Here's a poem that I started in America earlier this summer.
I think it is self explanatory.

THE PRICE OF ADMISSION

It is hardly surprising

I have a bullet in my hand.

This is America after all.

It lies uneasily my palm,

a combination of brass cylinder,

and enough lead to cause mayhem,

but it will never participate

in a lethal, kinetic ballet.

Impotent, inert, chained to a ring

whose key opens a door

onto a room carpeted

with the skins of cows.

The place I was staying was carpeted with the skins of cows. The poem was sparked by the bullet on the key chain and wrote itself. I have to thank the Secret Poets for their input and for the idea of tidying the poem up into three stanzas.

I leave you with Anna Ternheim.