It’s anti-ballet, performance art with nothing
approaching production value, improvisations
incited by sweat, umbrage and, infrequently, blood.
Arms dancing and landing in air, knuckles soggy
with rail vodka or happy hour residue, indignant
about something they won’t remember in the morning.
Sound of sneakers or boots and the occasional wing-tip
scuffling, with an invisible ensemble of bystanders
working ringside, providing incompetent commentary.
And, inevitably, wives or girlfriends offering nothing
like encouragement, declining to intervene—resigned
to the role of ritual and bearing witness to this banality.
Cold-cocks, cheap shots: such oblivious yet entitled
and very Caucasian contempt for Queensbury Rules,
these tedious aesthetic affronts to the sweet science.
Fortunately for all involved, fists seldom land
on flesh, and nothing approximating closure occurs
during these flash fictions, designed for embellishment.
But these days such sad brawls endure, preserved
on cell phone celluloid and enshrined on the internet,
where smugly sober cowards crave vicarious violence.
—
You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
 White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism |
 Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box |
 The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
 |
—
iStock image
