Fists

Pleased with the tightness
and the resultant heat
of my fists, I shone hard
as a youth — could have had
my picture in the dictionary
next to “righteous,” my growl
remixed as a viral
undertone to public events;
deep into middle age now,
I open my hands
but no one’s rushing up
to clasp them.  This is,
I suppose, what I get
for dimming the fire within:
I may last longer
but will also feel colder —

I suppose I have to consider
that my life’s always been this cold
and that I never knew that
because of how long and hot
I’ve been burning;
still,
I’ll be damned
if I’ll start fighting again
just to get warm.