My adoptive father
(A week younger than I)
Who once dated my adoptive mother
(4 months younger than I)
Took us out to a posh joint in New Town
Where both of us took turns in being the clown
Taking the jester's, drama queen's crown
And taking down
Our Spanish waiter
Not sure if we did cater
More to them than they to us.
The racket, the drama, the jokes, the fuss,
My Instagram, and A.'s.
I remember his attempts to chase
Us, to gain to our level, to chat me up - make me leave trails
Of mirth tears, too, not just vinaigrette. "If the lady would give me her details...
Have my heart..."
(Serving four of a chicken on my plate)
"You broke my heart."
(Agreeing to and pulling off staging a "stage kiss" with my mate)
And they both admired my guns - He knew not to cross
Us. We're a dream team, my school-dad and I, no loss
For us, though we take Ls with smiles on our faces:
We'll keep on joking, laughing, irreverently, untying your laces,
Tripping up on our own but still making the trip;
And when the bill finally came, it was more than worth it, even the tip.

I let my guard down
you kept yours up
slipping my questions
like Ali bob-n'-weaves through a flurry'
untouchable
Beautiful like a butterfly, but still stings like a bee
shes got a degree in kicking ***
and enough sass to harass me
painfully, playfully.

Shes a sweet pea,
who listens to indie
drinks peppermint greet tea
a spirit so free
its something to merit
you would never believe it

In the cage, shes a killer
shes no wannabe petite bourgeoisie
shell be on a killing spree
crush you like a flea, under her knee
that's a guarantee.

Shes the queen bee
ink to show it
i'm not a poet
'but a potent moment of expression
that's my confession
and so I question;
motionless, face buried in the canvas,
why did I let my guard down.

The mirrors are now flush with a fog,
the air grows hot from the bodies
that move about the mat like acrobats,
swimming through the guards and grips
of their opponents’ limbs
as I sit back and admire
another training session
at the monster gym.

Sometimes I think, not too often
(but occasionally) and I wonder
where would I be if I had not been here-
for the last two and half years of my life?
What kind of person would I be
had I not met all these different personalities
who have wandered in and out those doors
both day and night?

   For some this place is an escape
               but for me it’s become a way of life.

Muhammad Ali died on the third.
Kimbo Slice died yesterday.*

    If one thing is now clear, it's that life doesn't appreciate those who are strong enough to fight back.