THE GOOD FIGHT

by Paul Hostovsky


Which one
is the good fight
anyway?
Isn't it the good guy
kicking butt but
a little reluctantly
because he's good
and hates to have to,
but since no one else would
and wrong would just go
on unrighted,
he steps up to the plate
and takes a few good swings
and puts that baby to bed?
Go fuck yourself, you said
and have said nothing else
all day. Now it's nighttime
and your silence is still
that choked, caked, kill-
all-the-motherfuckers-take-
no-prisoners kind
you have honed to a fine
squint. But I only
meant to point out
what was wrong--
to right it.
I don't know much
but I know I love
your butt more than God
or country,
and when we fight
it hurts me right
here--right
here. And now
I think the good fight
is the one we get through
quickly,
get to the other side of
with nothing dead or otherwise
irreparable floating
in the churning reddish
air we part like a sea
miraculously
finding our way back
to each other's
arms.


Paul Hostovsky's poems appear and disappear widely online and in print, with recent sightings in Free Lunch, Spoon River Poetry Review, Shenandoah, Poet Lore, Paper Street, FRiGG, Slant and others. He works in Boston as an interpreter for the deaf.