White Boxing Gloves

I have watched that couple dancing 
in the ballroom of my mind
since January
It is now April
and I am cold
and feeling old
and tired of battles with no end

I wish I could kiss the cheek of 
each young colleague  
holding on too tight 
in the academic's dance of anger 
and transmit with that brush of lips
to sweet flesh burning with rage
the patience and compassion
I have for each of them
Their souls deep inside
surely must yearn for this

But NO, the fires of betrayal
and flaming towers of deceit
have come crashing upon their
stubborn heads
and no one rests at all when dreams 
of vicious gossip are what we 
take to bed.

The clock chimes 
it's a new part of the day
I want to put these fiery memories
and the hundreds of words in screaming 
e-mails of argumentation
into a cool metal box
stuff it in a drawer and head
for that thousand plus mile journey home

My tired body
and my exhausted soul know quite 
well that the wisdom of the old is built upon 
the crumbling waves of 
youth who run to us 
for succor and support

But here 
discouraged by my 
unwillingness to take sides
they avoid taking the different road
and careen backwards into 
an enduring petty war
on the institutional dance floor 
competing for the prize of 
most stubborn
unprofessional and uncouth.