It still haunts me because I won’t bury
it— bad memory—or throw it away—
chipped molar. Latin millstone I carry
literally around my neck. Display
it on a silver chain hooked through a hole
Elmer drilled in its crown. Trophy I won
in a ’65 bar fight. Chills my soul
sometimes—visions of whippings we called fun:
breaking noses and jaws, gouging eyes, knees
in nuts. I hit him harder and quicker
than Ali pounding Frazier…Okay…Please.
Longer anyway. Spied a slight glitter
in his pool of blood. Scooped it up and ran.
Never stepped back in that gin mill again.
Roger Armbrust
June 26, 2009
