Tonight in Haberdash

I did not come here to pick a fight with you,
but I’m ready with a fair right hook
to hook your nose or sand your eye,
so don’t even try—don’t even try—
I’ve lost to better men than you,
I’ve lost and conquered better men by far,
although I’d like to keep a closer hand tonight,
and so I say: I did not come for war.

In Haberdash
there is no lower man than I,
no man to match my old fork in the eye
or the way I let them lyrics fly
of songs I never heard before nor sung.

But now I’ve arrived,
and this little shore shall bear my sum
(do you recall your sums?).

I’m thirty and seven years—
that makes…?
a blessed age for men
with fighting songs to sing and still
be foot-ready to ring them in
with this much cheer,
with this much cheer,
and still foot-ready to ring them in.

But I did not come to pick a fight
or red some cobblestone tonight,
but pluck something from you of rare delight—

a thing I cannot win with bursts of fists
or boards or bats—
or any sweet, goodly thwacking thing
(do you recall the glory of the boxing ring?)—
I’m sure you know, in Haberdash,
the boxing ring.

But I cannot, with that golden belt,
command my aching heart to melt,
or unclasp these wrenching, eager pitter-patter
fingers thick with vapored batter.

It’s something soft—
not hard like me—
it’s something soft.
Whisper it. Please…

There is none
in Haberdash tonight
to speak it soft,
to make it right.

January 13, 2026