Scars

Scars

they were serving fried frog’s leg
at the frog farm, my friend told me
it was a delicacy, the self-fermented
rice wine drank us down
and we followed up with beer

the evening darkness failed to envelop
the coal fires from the barbeque pits
i try not to differentiate between the heat
and warmth in this social event
i’m here only to make up the numbers

children running with sparklers
ethereal graffiti into the air, everything
sounds like a bad karaoke rehearsal
in fact, everything is a bad karaoke session
cracked middle age voices broadcasting
vulgar hokkien tunes to the melody
of “smoke gets in your eyes” playing
in my head. everything seems so fucking surreal

i noticed the three legged farm dog
chasing a tiny jack russell around
probably the pet of one of the guest
the children were trying to protect
the little guy, pelting the big guy
with flaming sparklers and stones

just like the three legged farm dog
trying to protect his own territory
i feel a tinge of remorse for the
superficiality of my once youth
the hurt i dished out to others at will
all because i had confused ugliness with evilness

and i was still wondering how the big guy
lost his leg – my educated guess is a misplaced
hunter’s trap, when my friend tossed
another can of beer in my hands, his wife
brought us another plate of freshly grilled meat
and we drank in silence to all the scars
that we took in and gave out getting here

in the boisterous atmosphere of the night
i could hear the croaking of another frog