Fred Aiken Writing

there’s a friend that keeps pestering me to see
the birth mark i received when i was born anew,
on a crisp, purple morning,
while walking along the side of the road,
to nowhere in particular,
other than the rest of my life,
and a stray bullet from a gun i never saw,
from a person i never met, or saw, for that matter,
shot up in the air some several miles east, west, north, or south,
i don’t know,
and the bullet’s sway from gravity landed,
embedded itself like some sort of unwanted accessory,
into the side my right foot,
so now i walk with a slight limp, and
when i got for walks with friends,
as infrequent as that might be,
they will always ask if i’m okay,
what’s wrong,
why am i walking with a limb,
to which i retell the same story with differing amount of details,
depending on the friend,
depending on the day,
depending on my mood,
and i’m always met with the same curiosity,
to see the bullet resting in my foot