Phantom Bump

When we began those weekly tangos, you and I,

when we matched pummel for pummel, pound for pound,

our dauntless flesh blending with flesh,

the virile fibres slick with rage,

When we flashed from rope to man, tasting iron,

water, iron, loved as kings,

why would we, in this hollow dotage guess

beneath the wrinkled canvas,

silver-laced yet undisputed

that stone-cold sting of slaughter lingers on?

Or that, beside our fragile web of neurons

our brittle bones chant “Why?”

(This poem was written after I read a transcript of two ladies in the 1930's discussing the authenticity of wrestling moves and the 'fakery in wrestling.' I'm sure a lot of pro wrestler's bodies will certainly be feeling the reality of their career in their old age!)