The Boxer and the Alley Cat - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

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.