Referee

The pain of loneliness and
each convinced of its position,
To what do I owe this honor?
fight of the century.
drops of sweat fly in my face.
Poignant reminders,
Whom do I root for?
Should I hope for a draw?
on the edge of my seat,
I look for the referee.
I listen for the bell.
Who’s calling this fight
The room is spinning.
I can sense the desperation of each fighter.
I realize the referee is me.

© 1997 Steven Barto