Boxers

In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him

'Til he cried out in his anger and his shame

I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains.

An old man sits in his living room in the light of one lamp and the flickering barrage of FoxNews streams, pics and banner headlines. His life almost used-up, he needs his daily morning, afternoon and prime time fix of things to resent, a fresh charge of anger—even fury—to reacquaint him with at least the sensations of youthful strength and drive he’d taken so much for granted, even wasted like the cheap gasoline in the good old days that never were.

Donald Trump knows that old man is watching him on the fake news. He knows because that old man is the poorman version of himself, lonely, disappointed, inwardly aware of the near-total failure he made of his life, but outwardly muffling the anxiety churned in the calderone of that truth by casting blame on everything and everybody else.

I could have been as successful as Trump, thinks the old man. I could’ve been rich, too, he knows, equating wealth with proof of winning in life, as did his same-aged hero.

Trump looks out through the TV screen at the old man and thinks,  Loser. Wouldn’t want to be him, even while knowing deep-down to his malnourished soul all his wealth can’t separate him from the rancid umbilical cord that firmly attaches him to the aged object of his contempt.

Both always right, never wrong; in the ring a lifetime of battling every contradiction, ignorant of the love being wasted outside the arena; preferring the company of spectators who only seemed to appreciate them more.

The spectators are all gone, now. A sad wife remains. The old man fantasizes a new, much younger spouse, envious that Trump could collect and discard so many of them; not considering for a moment the president’s inability to feel human love caused those women to drift away, as his distant and sad old wife, also emotionally neglected, though still existing under their communal roof, often wishes she had long ago abandoned him.

Losers, both of them: one in the company of strangers, pouting in the Oval Office; his biggest fan watching, alone with himself and memories of nothing, nothing at all….