BELLICOSA
Every wound I ever had was a Civil War wound
to be sure - the slice of a saber across my palm.
Some horseman's dared swagger with his pistol
and prep, the ball in my upper left thigh; I bled
for days in a daze too. What did expect, I guess,
skimming like a rat atop some dug-in parapet.
All that tissue has healed up now - the scars
just ripple on my skin. Old as the hills, and no
longer bold at all, I creep through the underbrush,
still expecting an ambush. A gallantry of the old
Confederate brush I've been whisked by before.
All those people who read secret languages into
my words, they can have them. They can run,
they can hide, they can wail, they can complain.
They can shibboleth my toilet mouth to death
and back - I've already been there, don't they
see, and I'm not going back again.
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