Your class means little
When you enter
The circle marked
With stone benches
And two roofed enclosures
For voyeurs to peek.
Make sure you are wearing
Your hat with the black
Side panels and blue
Or red dome from which
A pointed spire
Draws upward like
A stupa except that it
Contains your holy relic.
Your jacket is too small
And covers not your chest,
For once there was a
Cunning woman who
Proved more troublesome
Than her demure appearance
Would have you believe.
Bend at the knees in your
Pointed boots
And hit yourself three times
On the sturdy trunks
That support your frame,
Before you run forth.
An old gentleman removes
Your hat after you
Glide around him with
Wings outstretched in
One way then another,
Pay your respects,
And grab the person
Standing across from you.
The operative words in
This struggle is cunning.
Remember your class?
It means nothing.
Everything can be used
Against you, or exactly
What you think will
Bring you down
Will do just that.
A loss in your books,
But fear not,
For your partner has
A red banner on his hat,
You note,
As you pass under his arm,
He to glide around
The red and blue flag
Before scattering bread
To feed the wind.
It’s over, and you remove
Your jacket and hat,
And don the wardrobe
Of your past and simple life,
Leaving as it rains,
Dirt and sweat still
Wedged in your boots.
Composed 07/06/2012
Author’s Note: A poem about Mongolian wrestling.
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