I
found
my gloves.
in the loft.
Not the leather ones,
smart, slick, with criminal intent,
nor the fur-lined mittens from frozen Minnesota.
I'd bought them one winter, shivering and under-equipped, shocked how cold real cold feels.
That was the day when I discovered roller-blading
watching a man chasing a bus.
I learnt it back home,
an old kid
scaring
the
block.
I
found
a buzz
of danger
blading in the park
by the Albert Memorial.
I was good at speeding but didn't learn how to brake.
Now my skates are in the loft, dusty and sad, asking to play, not knowing I'm grounded.
Craving excitement, taking Kung-Fu classes for kicks,
full-contact sparring hit the spot,
but doctors said stop.
No fools like
old fools
they
thought.
I
found
the gloves,
my old friends
retired from the ring,
sixteen ouncers, bright red punchers.
I miss the battle, the rush, the adrenalin fix.
My fitness coach, a last ditch extravagance, suggested boxer-training.
We were in the garden by the petrified roses.
I said my old gear's in the loft.
Gloved again, I feel
born to fight.
Kapow,
blam,
zap!
