tomato can

the poverty of the heart,
writhes like a restless fetus,
twisting all around in anxiety and nausea,
feeling through the city night,
like a blind man,
in a tunnel of darkness and metal,
pain, the oldest friend,
was there at the beginning,
will be there at the end,
aching on the surface,
aching in the depths,
aching in the body, mind and soul,
calcified knuckles,
detached retina,
nasal fracturing,
slight limp,
half numb left hand,
and a bum knee,
a tuna sandwich and a hearing aid,
long nights and lonely dreams,
a shit love life,
but it's the only life he's got,
and he was never surprised what he could do alone,
just out of sheer willpower,

now he trains younger hearts,
eyeing the struggle,
from student to teacher,
from novice to master,
if success never came to him,
skills were gained,
how to handle failure,
how to manage the sting,
with the restraint and patience,
of a veteran of the ring,

somewhere in the nexus between time and meaning
the heart explodes,
like a spiritual sneeze,
just a gnarled figure under the lamplight,
shadowboxing the breeze.