heavyweights
nobody had a clue
what they were always fighting about
but every so often
they’d slam down their beers
and put up their fists
they’d dance around the small bar
like a couple of worn-out heavyweights
ducking and jabbing
while the rest of us tired bastards
made love to our drinks
and tried to listen to the jukebox
tried to carve out a few hours
before bed and work the next day
of course someone had to shout
knock him the hell out!
but then just like that
the fight would be over
and they’d go back to bullshitting and drinking
like they were the best of friends
it would be sooner rather than later
that one of them would start again
then the fists would come up
and the dance would begin anew
ali and frazier
fred and ginger
they’d sometimes take it into the street
and do their little routine for the stiffs
carrying pizzas and ice cream
a lot of us waited for some citizen to call the cops
and someone in the bar would always shout
for the love of christ, lock the goddamned doors!
but no one got there in time
and they’d be back inside again
the best of pals
arms slung around each other’s shoulders
like war buddies
ready to fight and drink off and on all night
until one of them passed out
or stumbled the hell home
we never figured out what it was between them
but they were something to watch
in between the mets innings
and grateful dead songs
even though they never landed a punch
when the joint closed for good
and the bunch of us went scattering for other stools
i always thought i’d end up somewhere
and see those two guys again
doing their crooked waltz as the sun came down
but eventually all the great ones retire or they get too old
they lose the zest for violence
and the rest of us blood thirsty fools
get nothing in return for our patronage
but stale beer and adele songs playing for hours
some old fuck muttering to himself
or the seven o’clock news
blaring from two wide screen televisions
on another useless friday night
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