Ropes
Thought I knew the ropes.
Not to get tangled between them.
Yet once the fight commenced,
I lost sight of what I learned.
Like Iron Mike warned:
Everyone has a plan,
Until they get punched in the face.
All the daily training—
Hours and hours of preparation—
Did me little good in the ring.
I barely made it through a round,
Succumbing to blow after blow,
Before the referee stopped the bout,
Had me carried to my corner,
Asked me to name the date,
And where I was…
Pluto, of course, I responded.
Then I blacked out again.
So much for my boxing career.
Short and anything but sweet.
Think I’ll stick to tennis.
Take my lumps on the court.
Carry a few extra rackets—
Just in case.
*
The Dead
The dead are entitled to more
Than we give them credit for,
Floating in our minds,
Morning, noon, and night,
Until they’re here, among us,
Requesting the next dance,
If we take them at their word.
Don’t ever call them ghosts—
An offense not easily forgotten.
They’ll haunt you, left and right,
Refuse to allow a moment’s rest,
Should you make them feel
Less worthy of your time,
Too blind to accept seriously.
No, elevate them as best you can.
Extend an invitation their way.
Bake whatever cake they desire.
Give them space at the table.
Offer them a plate of grace.
*
Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023. He has taught at Glendale College, where he edited Eclipse, a literary journal, and, most recently, in the MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles. His work has been anthologized in textbooks published by City Lights Books, Etruscan Press, Harcourt Brace, Longman, McGraw-Hill, Prentice Hall, the University of Iowa Press, Wadsworth, and others. He lives in Pasadena, California.
