the scar

my dad kept brass knuckles in a bedroom dresser drawer
underneath my mother's white panties.

he had a temper, that's for sure.

he was a fist fighter, i was told.

once, during a baseball game he was catching for his Marietta
team, a local cop arrived to arrest the second baseman.

when the cop walked onto the field to get his man, my dad flipped
his mask and ran to get the cop.  And he did, so I was told.

and later, he got me, more than once.

but i don't want to talk about my childhood.

well, there is this:

my first three speed bike was too big for me.

but i rode it to elementary school anyway.

i watched a girl friend of my mother after she took a shower at our house,
peeking in from outside while she was drying herself.  Those were the first
real breasts i ever saw, and there was nothing special about them.

i was curious about a female body, but can't remember why.

i have a long very visible scar on my right forearm.

the scar has a history, but i can't remember what it was.

i was a good high school wrestler.

today, i continue to watch my weight.

i shot at frogs along the shoreline of a large pond, using
a BB rifle.

no frogs shot at me.