Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Erik Menkveld

AGING BOXER

Hauls himself much like an overfull
suitcase into the drawing room,
coquettishly wags his meat croquette,
spins on his axis
does it again
lies down on the smyrna
 
and some thirty years later
I don’t know where I saw him
at which occasion, with whom,
only that he looked at me
until I thought: I could have easily
been him, and not just
him, that carpet too,
that club chair,
that teak buffet . . .

OUDE BOXER

OUDE BOXER

Zeult zich als een veel te vol
gepakte koffer de salonkamer in,
kwispelt koket met zijn vleeskroket,
draait om zijn as
en nog een keer
gaat liggen op de smyrna

en een jaar of dertig later
weet ik niet waar ik hem zag
op welke visite, bij wie,
alleen dat hij me aankeek
tot ik dacht: ik had hem makkelijk
kunnen zijn, en niet alleen
hem, dat kleed ook,
die clubfauteuil,
dat teakhouten buffet . . .
Close

AGING BOXER

Hauls himself much like an overfull
suitcase into the drawing room,
coquettishly wags his meat croquette,
spins on his axis
does it again
lies down on the smyrna
 
and some thirty years later
I don’t know where I saw him
at which occasion, with whom,
only that he looked at me
until I thought: I could have easily
been him, and not just
him, that carpet too,
that club chair,
that teak buffet . . .

AGING BOXER

Hauls himself much like an overfull
suitcase into the drawing room,
coquettishly wags his meat croquette,
spins on his axis
does it again
lies down on the smyrna
 
and some thirty years later
I don’t know where I saw him
at which occasion, with whom,
only that he looked at me
until I thought: I could have easily
been him, and not just
him, that carpet too,
that club chair,
that teak buffet . . .
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