Edgar had a glass eye.
Why was a matter of permanent
conjecture.
“Hey, there’s Edgar.”
Powerful words that left un-licked
ice cream melted in the street
or froze a good fight,
with fists hanging mid-air. Theories
took quantum leaps:
he was shot with a BB gun;
he got poked in the eye with a wooden
sword, sharpened razor-like on the sidewalk;
a cat jumped into his crib and didn’t suck
his breath, but ate his eye instead;
he was stuck in the eye with a needle,
and because he was telling the truth
he lost his eye instead of dying.
Out of respect for the eye, the mystery,
and Edgar, no one ever bothered to ask.
I thought it was cool, kind of like a frying
egg with a little blue yolk. It occurred to me
to ask him to come and play marbles with us.
I would wipe out his stash,
then in one final game
he would have to pluck out the eye
and use it. I would win
the greatest shooter marble
of all time.