Author | Ian Wilson
I took a hard left hook
boxing my conscience,
a week later my ribs
are still bruised.
But I look better
coming and going.
The Beloved waves from her red couch
and wonders when
will all this frantic motion end.
At the moment I turn 45
a fanfare blares for a common man.
Then I'm off to the gym to carry heavy weights
from one room to the next.
In France they call this labor.
Here we have strange definitions of fun.
To be short of breath and soaked to the skin,
unable to lift my arms--
when did pain become means and end?
I hurt, therefore I am.
I'm drawn to hospitals,
spend my holidays receiving treatment.
A bruise the shape of Texas forms on my arm.
My wrist is too sore for writing.
We will go on with the catalogue
maybe I'm not getting enough fiber in my diet.
Let me take one step and spin the planet
I'm fast, for a man my size
with good hands and a solid chin.
These are special terms that trainers know.
To the Beloved, I'm becoming
just another pug.
About the Author | Ian Randall Wilson has published two chapbooks, Theme of the Parabola and The Wilson Poems, both from Hollyridge Press. His fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in many journals including The Gettysburg Review, The New Mexico Humanities Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, The Mid-American Review, and North American Review. He has an MFA in Fiction and in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. He is on the fiction faculty at the UCLA Extension. By day, he is an executive at Sony Pictures Entertainment.