The champ, undefeated, undisputed, yet,
something in his visage suggests the ride’s clicked
to its apex, feet planted on the mat while Buster
dances and bobs, raring and weaves.
By the third round the fight’s over, by the eighth
our eyes are swelled shut, a last ditch effort
to slide a bullet proof vest into history.
Space shuttles at landing (and take off).
Here lies facts we dare not admit; brothers,
Presidents, heroes and foils gunned down,
leaders succeeded by mediocre men.
We all miss Cus.
From our torn chairs, our stained carpets, from walls punched
that we’ll never repatch, we pay our debts and cast
votes holding our nose, knowing the awful choice
leads to less tears (and less death).
*also an assignment, from yet another friend.