Brett Stuckel

WHAT THE GUY SITTING NEXT TO ME AT THE BAR SAID TO THE CANCEROUS SIDE OF MY HEAD

Badass skull scar, big ass question mark, were you riding?
My brother went over the handlebars in Zion,
my dentist put his hand in the snowblower,
all I have is the Hot Wheels hood that sliced my falling knee.

How did they stitch it up? What—you got stapled?
Forty-six of ‘em, killer, man, you got to keep those sides tight,
tell the barber you want a 1, all the way up,
a pre-emptive shutdown of road-rage.

People buy you shots? They know
you’re a last-call fist-launcher, want to
get in your corner,
metal plate under there? Does it keep

you awake? Did you break
the airport scanner? The TSA,
they see it and search you, or say right
this way, Afghanistan ass-kicker,

was it a Siberian gulag
inquiry table,
a year trapped on one of those
feisty islands?

Don’t worry, I know
you can’t tell me, I’m not
asking, I’m just,
sorry, seriously, don’t

want to pry, my
bad, I’m out—
bartender, tab.

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