The dog had a scar.
It ran the full length of his snout
from his left eye to his nose.
It was bulging. Keloid. Grotesque.

What happened to your dog? I asked.

My neighbor wore an Easter egg purple shirt.
He  smiled and said,

We’ve been to the dog fights.
The bull pen.
The mattresses.

He told me about bared teeth
and snapping jaws
and claws cracked on cement,
trying for purchase,
pulling against restraint,

then unleashed the pure primal pleasure of the fight.

It’s been a hard year.
He said.

He showed me the pick line in his chest,
the bare spots where his hair had fallen out,
his cracked fingernails and teeth.
He stared me down,
not ashamed for his scars.