Dad watched the fights every Friday night
I learned that to be close to Dad
You watched the fights with him
We never talked directly to each other
Only through the televised action
On our old black and white Philco
Dad’s eyes never left the set
Occasionally he’d make fists
With his large calloused workingman’s hands
And throw a calculated punch here and there
I did the same
My smaller writer’s hands mimicking his jabs
Boxing seemed brutal
Downright Neanderthal
But somehow you knew–
Fighting was a real part of life
Completely inescapable
And any life situation could be the ring
As a seven-year old
I had no idea
That life was an endless boxing match
Not limited to Friday nights
Usually not a spectator sports
And most often, you had to be your own referee
Poetic Alchemist 
Thanks Miley-Cyrus-Fan and Eline.
Eline, glad you found your way over here.
Beautiful! In the end, the comparison with life as a boxing match, it sometimes seems like it is.
Great work!
Greetings, Eline (from Flickr)
Thanks Dan, Polona and Andrew.
Dan, Thought you would remember.
Polona, thanks, and there are more sunset shots coming from last eve.
Andrew, that is a nice thing to say. Thanks. Dad has been sick lately, He’s 86.
I think that if your Dad was here and read this, he would like it — and would tell you. š
that’s a great analogy…
and wow, i just saw those sunset (?) photos!
i’m fine, just busy with life, i reckon š
I certainly do remember the Friday Night Fights. We watched ’em, too, although I wasn’t as observant as you.
And I see your lesson and analogy.
Good one, Don!