armadillo

above the bar
sat a stuffed
armadillo, his
bean brown
shell still glossy
and hard, even
after decades of
smoke and drink,
juke box music
and brawls
over women and
politics. he had
no opinion on
any of what
transpired, silent
with wisdom,
his roadside
death and
subsequent
embalming
had made him
a saint, a calm
above the crowd.
nothing could shake
that knowing
stare from his
black pebbled eyes.