It’s a Smokey old theatre,
For the sport of boxing,
Fluorescent lights,
Murmur of crowds,
Spilling of beers,
And the opponent we all hate, just
Swaggered into the hall,
Down the aisle glaring at all,
We shrink back as Mr. Uncertainty
bounces over the ropes,
And lands on the matting with a
clunking sneer,
He can smell the fear.
[Hesitation denial , how did I get here?]
He looks v e r y big from my corner,
where I cringe from
cuts and bruises of previous fights,
Of fancy and where hopes had been,
Now the threat of what must happen
Is as foggy and wet as my brow,
Sauna’d with sweat..
[Is there an subsitutue? an escape ?]
The bell howls in this cavern, and
rings in my head bringing,
me to my feet and my face to my foe,
Mr Uncertainty standing proudly centre ring,
I approach, yet he looks not at me,
But calls to all the audience !
Who rolling back in revulsion and fear,
Thinks he’s about to eat me right here.
[Time slows to a misty forlorn crawl?]
Cold clandistune Déjà vu,
Now I am not so sure,
as I’ve Heard of his type, they’re big in the press,
and report a good fight,
Perhaps as I come closer now,
He’s a bit thin and grey and looks,
squeamish and lucent and hollow ,
The look on his face is changing back and forth,
His legs bulge and then wane,
His skin looks aged weary and coarse.
[Breathe deep rememeber love and resilience ?]
It begins,
There is no choice.
Forward downward onward upward ,
I’m in the ring with uncertainty and only
Hollywoods Poet Philosphers know
the meaning,
Chalky dust floats in the light ,
Pondering the unknown outcome.
T. Poe
September 19 2001
Oxford
Unfinished as yet.
Remembered and edited at CV19
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