They stalk along dark, suburban bushes,
past the Lucosade glow of T.V. sets,
past the wire gridlock of heras fencing,
to that small shack near the old fire station
where they can bolt a door upon the world
and develop in their microcosm.
The fungal ceiling reeks an acrid grace
which settles on each man who enters there;
reward for contributing to the noise
of the self-locomotive factory floor,
for it is their thundering madrigal
this tussle of the muzzled men in gloves.
The aggression is siphoned from within,
where it crouches with childhood's epigram –
to flicker on a fervid, salt dry tongue,
and project forwards in battle with the self.
For everyone looks in the mirror
at flaws and virtues purer than their own
blinking back beneath the leather halo
sparring in a frozen time-frame unknown.
Circling like matadors, duelling crabs
gestation ending with a dull right hook –
I'm falling back, occiput posterior,
sinking through form and sound and sound and time
Hellenic man, barbarian, poet:
I should have seen it coming, I should-have-
should-have-been, shouldn't have done, should know, what?
Hands are folding over, calming, stopping.
I did good, they say. I did good, I did...
This is the type of happiness dogs must feel.
