The trick is that you're willing to help them. The rule is to sound like you're doing them a favor. The rule is to create a commission system. The trick is to get their number. The trick is to make it personal: No one in the world suffers like you. The trick is that you're providing a service. The rule is to keep the conversation going. The rule is their parents were foolish, their children are greedy or insane. The rule is to make them feel they've come too late. The trick is that you're willing to make exceptions. The rule is to assume their parents abused them. The trick is to sound like the one teacher they loved. And when they say "too much," give them a plan. And when they say "anger" or "rage" or "love," say "give me an example." The rule is everyone is a gypsy now. Everyone is searching for his tribe. The rule is you don't care if they ever find it. The trick is that they feel they can.
It’s late and your heart skips watching
that young man fight. The Garden, the left
jab lashes like a frog’s tongue catching
a fly. There you go again with an undeft
image to his arthropod conceit. You know he’ll win,
an old victory. They hate him there, sore
that he joined your faith, a strapping boy, skin
hairless almost feminine. He’d kept you up before,
your father waking you at dawn to watch the thrilla,
the rumble, even the shamble in Nagasaki
fighting a wrestler, a prone Japanese guerrilla,
bruising the elegant legs. What was he
telling you then in that unplanned night shift?
That there’s honor in defeat, that you’d get your chance?
The referee says, “Alright boys,” and you drift
to Ralph Allison’s blind nightmarish dance.
The doctor checks Jones’s right eye, but the crowd
boos him. There’d been a scandal in slow mo.
No one wants a dead man shouting aloud
maricon! At the end of round five, he’s slow
and you want to lead him back to his corner
though you know he’ll win, a knockout,
probably, but he wastes two rounds looking for
a strong straight right as Banks flouts
a second wind. Then in a flash—you’re about
to adjust the volume or put a dish away—
Cooper is a cyclops, blood oozing out
of his one open eye, swinging wildly
like a wounded spider. Lyle’s coach protests.
Years later he’ll do the rope-a-dope to declaim
on purgatory. And later yet, in an airport
he writes a dedication to you, signs his name,
on a leaflet, “Life After Death.” Tonight again
your beloved brother squeaks by, a TKO.
His victory’s slower, but that’s where he’ll remain,
a light in your heart that never ceased to glow.