They are too old,

Too old to fight,

Too old to stir.

But they were fighters once…

He with fists that bruise

And her with sharp claws

And teeth that tear.

You’d think they would have found

Another room, another world, another life

To share.

But they stayed instead

And fought it through.

For the fightingest souls

Are steady.

To a passion deep within

That stays.

That stays and fights

And Fights again.

Not like those who fight to win.

But like those who cannot leave the fight.

Till they’ve discovered what

The fighting’s for.

And once they do

They fight some more

Till all the anger’s worn itself out.

And like the coals

Of an old fire

Smolder and warm

And warm some more.

Till smoldered out

They cuddle in for warmth.

Two sweet old souls

Whose fight is through

Though lingering there

The fight itself worn out to fighting

It sits alongside them

Of a summer evening

Just the three

The boxer, the alley cat and fight itself

And watch the sun set.

She leans back against his shoulder

And rests

Her gray hairs

Against his cardigan sweater.

Their breath is slow now

As is the case with old people

And their knees too bent

To contemplate another rise

And so they linger

As does fight itself

One tear slipping from his cold eye

And running down his charcoal grey cheeks.

He sits along beside.

For strange as it may be,

Porch swings are made for three.

But his tear is not

For battles lost.

Nor for battles that could be.

For he is also old

And weary of the strife.

But caught by some strange affection

To the two

Who would not accept defeat

He’s found in his old age

A refuge sweet

In the love of two old fighters

The ones he couldn’t beat.