I am not conscious of the scars,
most of the time. I do not see
them readily, am not reminded;
both are toward the back of the skull,
one a little higher than
the other, hidden by my hair.
I still have my hair, thank God.
The one is from a gun. No, not
a bullet, a gun. The higher-up,
older mark that would be,
and came not from true malice
but a small automatic thrown
in anger as I walked away.
It didn't go off, thank God again.
I know that's not very exciting.
There is no tale of a fight
nor holdup, just some mild amusement
in visualizing a pissed (and drunken)
woman chucking her pearl-handed
purse gun at my back. I suppose
she could have shot me. Thank God once more.
I did bleed some. As I did
when I got whacked with a steel bar.
That would be the second scar
and, yes, that was malice, not anger,
intended to lay me out. It didn't.
The bar only glanced across the back
of my skull and laid open the scalp.
For which I also am thankful to God.
Anyway, those marks remain,
reminders of who I was and still
am, perhaps. Not a fighter,
not a tough guy, just someone
who's been some places and done some things
and just might again, some day.
And for that, I thank God.
Stephen Brooke ©2009
Though laid out in lines of rough tetrameter, this could just as readily have been formatted as a prose poem. Or prose, period. Very first draft-y, of course, as is most anything I post here, and more of an idea than a finished piece.