13th Round

The bumbling, aged boxer in

my head. Shuffling, staggering

against the sides of the ring

of my brain.

 

He’s punch-drunk. He’s shaky.

He drools a little from the

corner of his mouth.

 

He keeps going forward,

or sort of forward as ably as

he can. His steps are ragged

but doggedly ahead.

 

It hurts him to move.

It hurts me when he moves.

He looks back with wincing

regret, over his aching

shoulder, for the ring-girl

that he loved but never

loved him back.

 

His joints are painful and

his eyes are cloudy.

Each jerking step a testament

to his duty to march in

the line of his direction.

 

I need an aspirin.