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To Emma Alvarez Gibson's previous piece

And A Fighter By His Trade

You wear that shirt 
when you are 
tired. It billows,
dwarfs you.
You tell me
dismayed
I guess I forgot
my belt today.

You look through 
everyone,
make each call 
more painfully 
jovial, until at last 
you hang up 
and secretly, 
for two seconds, 
sink. 

Then you strike 
up again, an orchestra 
with one song
playing like 
life depends on it
because it does, 
and because men do 
what needs to 
be done.

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