Where the Streets Are Full of Pity

Last night I met an old boxer in an alley of cardboard; he seemed glad to see me, shouted me over for a fight, I told him ‘Hey mate, I’m not in your league’ ‘Young man.’ He said with glint of victory in his solid brown eyes. ‘That’s alright, I suppose you’re going to leave cos the forecast is for rain, you in your fine mansion, mine here, just a bloody pain. But then I guess, that’s okay for a foolish old tramp.’ lonesome sadness blues through the lips of the city… the eyes are windows He told me ‘What’s the price of glory if one is shackled to the past. Even my wife left me, took my purse in pursuit of another man. To think I really loved her, gave her all that I could, the witch hankered for the final count, then left me where I stood’ He rambles on discursively ‘One day I’ll roam within my native Devon, where I’ll chase those illusive dreams back into heaven. Its years of abusing whisky years of perpetual hoar frosts that hones this savage beast.’ this fight on its knees many blind eyes a mismatch… all have a story ‘How do you think I feel in these chains of formal sorrow, replaying each vintage year each round like no tomorrow, each morning still, I count the homeless, watch the van collect the corpse. Man, I need a second chance to come out gamely fighting, repay life’s referee, society the uninviting.’ incompatible metabolism a stray… unfriendly advice His bottle runs dry, his words begin to wound. Here, In God’s own country left high wide and marooned. Yet like the mortal flame he submits to the desolate night, the municipal van empowered to administer the ultimate rite. No dawn able to invigorate leaves this empty feeling in me, only the morning dew edulcorates while a soul in hell is set free. careful where you tread mats to wipe one’s feet upon… look down you may see Entered sponsor Mark Toney's 2022 Marathon 19 poem converted from free verse to haibun 2022 3/11/2022