TWO FOR RINGSIDE

I hadn’t been to the matches
since I stepped out of the ring
washed off the makeup for good
and went back to being
only a poet,

but I’d promised my Vanya
to take us sometime,
and last night we finally made it.

The jolly dystrophic to my right
remembered me,
and smiled like hell:

“Y-yeah! Yeah!
L-luscious Leslie!”

We laughed shoptalk all card long;
he knew his theatre well...

Before the official carnage commenced
they played the rocket’s red glare,
and I stood with my hand on my cynical heart
proud to be an American artist
at the Blue Collar Ballet,
with the heart of my stepson from Russia
beating excited beside me.

Everyone’s work was on target,
the referee expertly blind;
I saw a few moves that I hadn’t before,
and it made me ache to break gravity--

trade some pain to sell the marks
on our status as demons & demi-gods...

too bad my time
and back are gone.

Vanya climbed my knee to see
the devastation just beyond
the inevitable fat redneck woman,

and I held him up through 10 matches,
discounting beer and bathroom breaks...

the pain was small,
the joy immense

and in the midst,
a thought:

“If God were great,
I’d still be working,
and my child could
watch me fly...”

But that night, God
was only
good.

    C Ra