I remember when
We fought those
Angry Puerto Ricans
With their shiny knives
And one of them got you
In your thigh, John.

I held your head in my
Lap as the blood from my
Nose trickled down your
Neck and chest and we
Were pretty drunk and
Very high on who knows
What and you asked if
You were going to die.
I said, "No, John. It's
Just in your thigh."

I remember that look;
Disappointment.
A furrowed brow and
You threw a gaze
To the wood-line in the east.
We all knew that feel.
The disappointment when
Death evaded us.
Cunning fellow.