lingers in my mouth
as I feed another
cup of black coffee
to an impending ulcer.
Uncle Ernie with his
bushy gray hair
& crumb speckled beard
sits next to me
leaning his elbows
on the table
gumming a spoonful
of oatmeal.
I light a Marlboro
fascinated by
the tattoo
that decorates
his forearm
with the image
of a dead angel
dangling between
the salivating jaws
of a Golden Retriever.
He pauses mid-chew
spoon still perched
to his lips
then startles me with
a sudden sideways glance.
He studies me for a moment
eyes wide, then says, “I
used to be the meanest
son-of-a-bitch south of Hanoi.”
He holds his gaze,
I nod in agreement
muttering, “Yep, I bet
you were Uncle Ernie. I
bet you were.”
And I imagine he was
as I watch his grip tighten
around the spoon, causing
the limp angel to convulse
between the Retriver’s jaws.