Punch-Drunk

The shelved number of unfinished notebooks
quite frankly assaults me, accusatory: quitter.
As does diving back into one, like so, like…
a punching bag too dumb to know he’s beaten.
Stay down, man. Averted eyes & shaken heads.

But the sorry dumb drunk used to could
throw a punch, lustily woo, get all worked up
in a lather over whichever girl of the hour,
see meaning-pregnant patterns
in weird light thrown through spring windows.

Now mostly the rain just patters, patternlessly.
The traffic lights clack-clunk colors
unheard at empty October intersections.
Train cars crash into stations
in a manner which does not imply sentience,
to say nothing of madness or exuberance.

Yet the drunk won’t stay down, despite
being shacked-up and cigarette-less
his frowning half-grin firm or tight
recalling the smell of July 4th cordite
an ice-runway goodbye, pale downy inner thighs
Austin ring-road four-door revolutions
an inability on occasion to get it up
cocky as fuck with the right cross to back it up
and all the radioactivity thereunto appertaining.

So back to training.