Sunday, February 25, 2024

Some Nights

Everything feels 
Just a little off 

My glove’s too tight 
Your shoes have an annoying squeak 
Sweat trickles down my neck 
My shoulders itch 

When the parry’s firm, the riposte flails 
My attack may open up a door and yet 
I miss and run into the wall 
Of your defense 

Even the best finish lands a 
Quarter inch from the lame 
Or sliding underneath 

Nights like this 
Victory’s no longer parsed in 
Bouts, but in a measure of 
Compassion for 

Forgiveness for my 
Patience for my flaws 

The hardest practice yet: 
Extending to myself the kindness 
That I offer others without thought

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