I Should Call This Childhood

I was taught how to fight by a man who died from a punch to the jaw.
That says something in a dead language I never learned to read.

He was white underneath the nicotine tan and green tattoos
with skin stretched taut over a looming skull.
The bags under his eyes shading in details I was too young to understand.

The man that was chosen to give me lessons in life had failed his tests.
A dealer turned junkie,
the best man my father could find.

I don't even remember his name,
but I remember him still.
I remember knuckles marked with HATE and LOVE.
And placing my feet in footprints left in sand, hoping to be hit with an open hand.