The pain of loneliness and
the excitement of adventure
face off, each convinced
of its position, mutually exclusive
of the other.
To what do I owe this honor?
A front row seat to the
fight of the century.
As blows are struck,
drops of sweat fly in my face.
Poignant reminders,
Rude, salty, definitive.
Whom do I root for?
Is that even a sensible question?
Should I hope for a draw?
I cringe with each punch;
on the edge of my seat,
stomach in knots.
I look for the referee.
I look for the time clock.
I listen for the bell.
What round is it?
Who’s calling this fight
anyway?
The room is spinning;
I can feel the pain.
I can sense the desperation of each fighter.
In a dizzying moment of clarity
I realize the referee is me.
© 1997 Steven Barto