They are too old,
Too old to fight, Too old to stir. But they were fighters once… He with fists that bruise And her with sharp claws And teeth that tear. You’d think they would have found Another room, another world, another life To share. But they stayed instead And fought it through. For the fightingest souls Are steady. To a passion deep within That stays. That stays and fights And Fights again. Not like those who fight to win. But like those who cannot leave the fight. Till they’ve discovered what The fighting’s for. And once they do They fight some more Till all the anger’s worn itself out. And like the coals Of an old fire Smolder and warm And warm some more. Till smoldered out They cuddle in for warmth. Two sweet old souls Whose fight is through Though lingering there The fight itself worn out to fighting It sits alongside them Of a summer evening Just the three The boxer, the alley cat and fight itself And watch the sun set. She leans back against his shoulder And rests Her gray hairs Against his cardigan sweater. Their breath is slow now As is the case with old people And their knees too bent To contemplate another rise And so they linger As does fight itself One tear slipping from his cold eye And running down his charcoal grey cheeks. He sits along beside. For strange as it may be, Porch swings are made for three. But his tear is not For battles lost. Nor for battles that could be. For he is also old And weary of the strife. But caught by some strange affection To the two Who would not accept defeat He’s found in his old age A refuge sweet In the love of two old fighters The ones he couldn’t beat.
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