JAKE, REMEMBERING THE BAR FIGHT

Sometimes on TV a flashing green neon light
reminds Jake of the silver blade

slashing air, slicing skin; then the red line
breaking up into rivulets,

smearing his arm as his fingers touched the
would even before the pain hit.

Even now, he doesn’t recall grabbing the beer
bottle, smashing it against the table.

But he still hears the big man’s almost child-
like scream seeming to echo against

the scarred walls of Jake’s prison cell, still
feels the shock of how easily

the solid slivers of glass ripped the red t-shirt
and sank into the stomach

as smoothly as a spoon through pudding.  He
remembers comparing blood,

his own a drying pond alongside the red ocean
pouring from the big man’s

body, the red t-shirt an even deeper red, the
wooden floor a giant crimson

easel featuring the big man in immortal
majesty as Jake stood meekly

by, knowing how truly insignificant was the
slight cut on his own arm.  In

the fast seconds before sirens outscreamed
the bar’s patrons, he stared in

numbed silence as his mind absorbed
the irony of the big man’s apparent victory.