The Bad-Ass at Forty

In a parking lot glistening with shards of glass-

in a town now crowded with the young and dangerous-

those who are what he briefly was-

he parks under the lights and locks his door.

Limping toward the midnight supermarket,

he listens for the sound of sudden steps in the dark,

keeping his key, a tiny spear, between two fingertips.

To the green-haired girl at the check-out counter,

he is just another hand and half-gallon of milk;

she twirls her necklace and picks her cuticles

as he pats his pockets for his wallet-

while others on line behind him wonder

whether he has grown to regret his tattoos.

At home, in the bathroom, the mirror hurts.

The scars on his pitted cheeks seem pale,

the muscles of his neck flex less; yet he remembers

the once-quick stones of his fists -and how

he owned every street he walked down.

But now, before bed, he stands at his window,

lowering his head as he lifts a dusty blind-

as if he expects to find someone in his yard,

kicking his grass, laughing, calling him out.