That Poem You were Writing

It's not easy being a poet nowadays.
Especially if you wander away from the desk
and pick up a newspaper, or listen to the radio,
switch on the TV, or be drawn into conversation.

That poem you were writing,
the one about your father taking you to the Stadium
as a kid to watch the boxing, and his annoyance
because you wanted to leave before  the final bout.

(Jimmy Doyle a welterweight whose father
worked with yours on the docks.) Like Jimmy,
the poem was promising, as you negotiated the line
between memory and nostalgia, honesty and regret.

If not ringside seats, close enough to feel
the smack of leather, the gobs of sweat.
To feel cold jabs of nausea and the need to escape.
Without a word to your father, you wander away from the       desk.

That poem you were writing,
still there on your return, but unrecognisable.
In the ring, Trump slugs it out with Kim Jong-un.
In the Ladies, Weinstein exposes himself to a suicide
      bomber.

To put an end to the nonsense, you climb into the ring
only for Jimmy Doyle to fell you with a single blow to the
      chin.