There’s honor to the scar,
this jagged ridge of my survival.
Sure it was a dumb adventure with a knife
that did it.
But people don’t know that.
And the years can keep a secret.
There’s a mark on the back of my hand
where I caught the blade of the thief
when riding rescue to some woman’s handbag.
It’s a souvenir from a skiing accident
down the steepest slope in Vermont.
Or I was sliced by thick jungle creepers
in the depths of Costa Rica
or fought ten rounds in a Brooklyn gym
and you should have seen the other guy.
There are times when all I have
to prove myself with is skin
so why shouldn’t it stretch the truth a little.
I’d rush in if a woman was threatened.
I could match wits with that treacherous downhill.
Jungles, middleweights.. . they’re safe
because I’ve never had the opportunity.
But I did try to peel a potato once.
An honorable man has to start somewhere.
* * * * *
John Grey is an Australian born poet who works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”, he has work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon. His other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.