“Just ten” or “whole ten”
is a matter of perspective.

Mr. Hopeful has never
turned down a fight.
He travels every week,
he parks his rickety Volkswagen
Polo
(a veteran like himself),
he wraps his own hands
and then he fights:
at the corn exchange,
at the cattle market,
the mall
or the pub.

He’s never missed weight
and has never been knocked out—that would mean
a two-month ban
and there’s a Mrs. Hopeful in the picture too.
They have a son.

He hasn’t knocked anyone out either,
out of pure professionalism. He knows
his occupation well—to lose.
And there’s a whole lot more he knows: the headaches
out of nowhere, the tremors, the speech slowing down,
time speeding up, the principle
that you must remain Hopeful
and abandon all hope,
without having heard of Dante.

It’s perfectly clear to him
there is no door inside that ring,
to just open and leave.

Mr. Hopeful is one
of the few Great Masters of Loss.
A virtuoso of his downfall
in this deluded age
of success.

A measuring stick
for someone else’s talent,
a proud zero
in the resumes of youngsters.

History and statistics may mock you,
but your boy has brand new school clothes.

History and statistics may mock you,
but you will remain in both.