It was fantastic, the day
he came out to play,
sporting a welt
on the eye and the brow,
and he told the tale of his dad and how
he drunkenly swung his B,B, belt,
and of how the brass of the old belt buckle
smacked harder and sharper
than fleshy knuckles.
And we, his chums would gather and pore
and prod and poke at the reddening sore.
We were dab hands at war wounds,
experts on cuts, knew that the hours
would force the eye shut.
With luck we hoped we’d soon get pus
or a loosening scab to be picked on by us.
But it still was a marvel, the way it appeared
how men worked their magic,
how boys masked their fears.
Thank god we were savages
and wild-eyed with wonder
and fit for the ravages
chucked by male thunder.